by J. Roberts
“I’m not lookin’ for a fight,” Flood said, wearily. He already had one brewing.
“Then go around, Mr. Flood,” Bellows said.
Flood shrugged. He had no choice. He turned his horse and headed back to the herd.
When he reached the herd, the cows were anxious to be on the move. They smelled the grass on the other side of the barbed wire. If they didn’t get them moving they might breach the barbed wire in their blind hunger.
He rode up to where Bud Coleman and the other hands were waiting.
“What happened?” Bud asked.
“We have to go around.”
“Boss,” Coleman said, “if we just let the herd go they’ll head for the grass—”
“No, Bud,” Flood said. “That’ll start a range war we can’t finish.” Flood stood in his stirrups and shouted to his men, “We’re goin’ around!”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Clint reined in Eclipse in front of the barbed wire.
“What happened?” Ryan asked.
“They had to go around because of the wire,” Clint said. “We’re going to run into more of that as we go along.”
“What about Jones and his men?”
“I think they’re behind the herd,” Clint said. “We’ll have to follow and look for an opportunity to rejoin the herd.”
“What if they spot us?”
“If that happens,” Clint said, “you’ll get to prove what you told me about your shooting.”
Ryan did not look as if he was looking forward to that.
“Come on,” Clint said.
As they rode along the wire Ryan asked, “Do you think Flood asked the rancher if they could pass?”
“I’m sure he did, and I’m just as sure he was turned down,” Clint said.
“Why?”
“Because no rancher wants better than a thousand head driven across his land. There wouldn’t be much left for their own cattle.”
“But Mr. Flood wouldn’t let them graze, would he?” Ryan asked.
“You ever try to keep a thousand hungry cattle from eating? Can’t be done. How’s your foot, anyway?”
“Hurts like hell,” Ryan said. “I think I need a doctor.”
“There’s a doctor in Dodge City,” Clint said, “but not much else.”
“I thought Dodge City was a great place to be.”
“It used to be a great place and a dangerous place,” Clint said. “Now it’s neither.”
“Should we go there for a doctor?”
“Let’s catch up to the herd, first,” Clint said. “Might be somebody there knows what he’s doing. If not, then we’ll go to Dodge if you still think you need it.”
“What if my ankle’s broke?”
“Not much a doctor can do but immobilize it and tell you to stay off it. Lots of people could do that.”
“Like who?”
“There’s usually somebody on a trail drive who can set bones, remove bullets, that sort of thing. Bud Coleman can probably do it, or Flood himself.”
“Or you?”
“Or me.”
Zeke Sterling was still upset that Chris Dawkins hadn’t returned.
“He don’t seem to care,” he said, jerking his chin toward Santiago Jones.
“Why should he?” Frank Hughes asked. “We’re just hired help to him.”
“What about you?” Sterling asked. “Don’t you care?”
Hughes shrugged and said, “Naw. I’m gettin’ paid whether Dawkins comes back or not.”
“You got any friends?” Sterling asked.
“No,” Hughes said. “And I don’t want any.”
“Why not?”
“You can never tell when you might have ta kill a man,” Hughes said, “even if he’s yer friend.”
He gigged his horse and rode away from Sterling, so the man couldn’t talk to him anymore.
He looked around and saw Dale Bogard riding behind him.
“Hey, Dale,” he said, dropping back, “don’t you wanna go lookin’ for Dawkins?”
“Hell, no,” Bogard said. “Why would I?”
“Because he’s one of us.”
“Whataya mean, us?” Bogard asked. “I ain’t no us, I’m, just me. If you got a complaint, take it up with Jones.”
Like Hughes, Bogard rode away from Sterling, who wasn’t getting any help from anyone.
Sterling thought about riding ahead, where Santiago Jones always rode alone, and complaining but he wouldn’t have put it past the big man to kill him on the spot.
Sterling wanted this job to be over, wanted to get paid, and wanted to get away from Santiago Jones.
“What’s wrong?” Ryan asked.
Clint didn’t answer. He stood in his stirrups and looked around, then sat back down and looked down at the ground.
“We’re right behind the herd,” he said.
“So?”
“So nobody else is,” Clint said. “I don’t see any sign of Jones and his men.”
“And that’s a problem?” Ryan asked.
“They’re not following,” Clint said, frowning, “and from what I can see, they’re not watching.”
“Sounds like good news to me,” Ryan said.
Clint was still looking at the floor, then turned his head and looked at Ryan.
“I can see where you might think that,” Clint said.
“And?”
“Let’s move.”
Because Flood had to change direction with the herd, Clint and Ryan were finally able to catch up by nightfall. As they rode into camp the other hands went to greet them, shaking Clint’s hand and slapping Ryan on the back.
“We thought you were a goner for sure,” Ray Sobel said.
“He still might be,” Clint said. “Help him off his horse and be careful with him. He might have a broken foot.”
“How’d that happen?” Flood asked.
“I’ll tell you all about it, but do you have somebody who can look at it?” Clint asked. “I don’t want to have to go to Dodge City for a doc unless we have to.”
“I’ll have Bud look him over,” Flood said. “Go get some coffee. I wanna hear all about it.”
THIRTY-NINE
Clint approached the chuckwagon and Spud Johnson stepped forward and held out a cup.
“Coffee?” Spud asked.
“And some food, if you’ve got some.”
“Always.”
Clint sat down and gratefully sipped the coffee. Spud brought over a plate laden with meat and vegetables.
“Couple of steer injured themselves and had to be put down,” he said. “We had beef steak.”
“Sounds good.”
Clint was eating when Flood came walking over.
“Nice to see you back, Clint.”
“You weren’t worried about me, were you?” Clint asked.
“Naw, of course not,” Flood said, accepting a cup of coffee from Spud. “You want to tell me what went wrong?”
Clint kept it concise, told Flood how Ryan had been injured.
“If you hadn’t had to change course around the wire we’d probably still be trying to catch up.”
“Yeah, that,” Flood said. “You know, in the old days I woulda drove the herd right through that wire.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“I talked to the owner of the ranch. He and his men stood me off with guns.”
“You were alone?”
“I wasn’t lookin’ for a fight.”
“Still,” Clint said, “it was my job to be with you.”
“Maybe it was better that you weren’t,” Flood said. “It might have pushed those boys into using those guns. They were good men, backin’ their boss. I wouldn’t have wanted any of them to get hurt.”
“You’re probably right.”
“What about our tail?” Flood asked. “I mean, if we even had one.”
“Oh, you had one,” Clint said. “According to Ryan’s description Santiago Jones and six men have been trailing us. Then Ryan and I caught on
e of Jones’s men and confirmed it.”
“What happened to the man?”
“We needed his horse to get Ryan back here,” Clint said. “We left him on foot with a canteen.”
“Sounds good. Wait, you said we had a tail?” Flood asked.
“That’s right,” Clint said. “While we were riding back, trying to catching up, I noticed they were gone—no tracks, and so sign of them watching.”
“So they’re gone?” Flood asked. “They gave up?”
“Is Morgan the type to give up?”
“No.”
“And I don’t think Santiago Jones is, either,” Clint said.
“Probably not,” Flood agreed. “So what do you think happened?”
Clint chewed his food and washed it down with a swallow of coffee before answering.
“I think they’ve gone on ahead,” he said. “Instead of following, they’ve decided to wait for us.”
“Wait? Where?”
“My guess would be somewhere between here and Ogallala.”
“Ogallala,” Flood said. “Now there’s someplace I haven’t been in a while. I supposed it’s changed as much as Doan’s Crossing, Dodge City, Ellsworth, places like that.”
“I suppose it has,” Clint said. “But it’s still the point where you steer the herd northwest to head for Fort Laramie. I think they’re going to want to take their shot before that.”
“Well,” Flood said, “the good news is, we can stop watching our back trail.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “but I think that’s outweighed by the bad news.”
FORTY
Bud Coleman worked on Chip Ryan’s foot, wrapped it, told him he couldn’t walk on it, but he could ride. Flood found a pair of boots in the hoodlum wagon that were a couple of sizes too big, so he was able to get it on over the wrapping. Ryan needed only one boot—the right. After that he was able to work, but not walk.
They successfully worked their way around the barbed wire encircling the Bellows ranch, and got back on track. They had bypassed Dodge City, so they had no problems with hands wanting to go into town to get drunk.
They had a good month—give or take—before they would reach Ogallala. They didn’t need the added annoyance of watching their back trail. They had trouble enough losing cattle to accidents and illness, losing a hand to an accident that never should have happened, and having to go around barbed wire several more times—one of which almost did escalate into a war. It was only the presence of Clint—introduced by Flood as “the Gunsmith”—that averted it.
To Flood’s credit he never tried to push around the weight of his herd, or the weight of Clint’s name. Each time they had to circle around land that was fenced in by barbed wire it cost them another day, but Flood did it. He didn’t want it known that he shot his way through his last drive.
Ryan worked pretty well despite the injured foot, the other hands pulled their weight, but there was one man in particular who caught Clint’s eye. He struggled to hold his own with the herd, and then in the evenings he sat off to himself while he ate. If he associated with anyone it was with Roy Sobel. Clint remembered that Sobel was the man Debra had told him about: aggressive, even violent, with women, and easily led by men.
The other man was Andy Dirker. If Sobel was being led then, it was by Dirker.
He started watching Dirker when one of the men’s saddle slipped, causing him to fall under the herd and be trampled to death. Bud Coleman swore that the man’s saddle had been tampered with.
Then, when the team pulling the hoodlum wagon got free, Coleman again said they’d been tampered with. Somebody was sabotaging the drive in small ways—except that the murder of Jack Trevor was no small thing. And he’d been stabbed. Clint noticed that, while he sat off by himself, Dirker had a habit of playing with his knife.
So unless Bud Coleman was the one committing sabotage, Clint’s money was on Andy Dirker.
A week out of Ogallala, Clint brought the subject up to Flood as they ate.
“Dirker?”
“Did you know him before you hired him?”
“No,” Flood said, “he’s one of the men I hired toward the end, to fill out my crew.”
“I’d like to find out some things about him,” Clint said.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I don’t want him to know I suspect him.”
“You got any idea who else you could ask?” Flood asked.
“I think I do.”
“Who.”
“Fella named Roy Sobel.”
“Sobel,” Flood said. “I’ve used him before.”
“Somebody told me he was easily led.”
Flood frowned, gave it some thought.
“I’d have to say that’s true,” he said, finally. “Seems to me whenever he gets in trouble it’s because he was followin’ somebody else. You think he’s followin’ Dirker? Helpin’ him with the sabotage?”
“Maybe without knowing it,” Clint said. “I guess I’ll have to have a talk with him to find out.”
“Let me know what happens,” Flood said.
“I’ve got something else to talk to you about,” Clint said.
“What’s that?”
“Bud Coleman.”
“You think Bud’s involved?” Flood asked. “I don’t believe that.”
“No, I don’t think he’s involved, but somebody told me Bud can handle a gun.”
“Was it me?”
“Somebody told me he can handle a gun real well.”
Flood ducked his head, as if caught in a lie.
“Well, I didn’t tell you that,” he said, scratching his nose, “but it’s true, Bud has a past he don’t like to talk about.”
“You think he’d back my play if I needed somebody?” Clint asked.
“Hell, I’ll back your play,” Flood said. “So will almost every man here.”
“I need a man who can really use a gun,” Clint said. “A man who’s killed before. What about his past?”
“You’ll have to ask him about it,” Flood said. “It ain’t for me to say.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “I can respect that. I’ll talk to him about it.”
“Good. I been thinkin’ that even with the trouble we’ve had, this trip has been too good to be true.”
“I think you’re right, Hank,” Clint said. “I think the worst trouble is still ahead of us, but let’s see what we can do to head it off.”
“I’m with you, Clint,” Flood said. “Also, you’ve done a helluva job as my segundo. Just wanted you to know that.”
“I appreciate it, Hank,” Clint said. “I’m glad I could do a good job for you.”
“Do you want to talk to Bud tonight?”
“I think I’d better,” Clint said. “If Jones and his men don’t try to spook the herd, it may come down to gunplay. I’ll need to know who I can count on besides me and you.”
“Okay,” Flood said. “I’ll send ’im over to talk to you.”
“Thanks, Hank.”
FORTY-ONE
“Boss says you wanna see me?” Coleman asked.
“Have a seat, Bud,” Clint said. He’d finished his meal and was drinking another cup of coffee. “Coffee?”
“Sure.”
Spud came over and poured it for Coleman.
“We’re heading for trouble, Bud, probably within the next week.”
“I thought we were waitin’ for trouble to come up behind us?”
“We were, for a long time,” Clint said, “but now I’m thinking it’s ahead of us.”
“Whataya need me to do?” Coleman asked.
“I hear you’re pretty good with a gun,” Clint said.
Coleman frowned.
“Who told you that?”
“I just heard it.”
Coleman shook his head.
“Somebody told you wrong.”
“That so?”
“Yup.”
“So you can’t handle a gun?”
“As g
ood as anybody here, I guess, ’cept you,” Coleman said.
“That’s too bad,” Clint said, “because I think we’re going to be going up against some shooters, and I’m going to need help.”
Coleman didn’t reply.
“Flood’s going to be in trouble, too.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s going to stand with me,” Clint said. “And if we have nobody else—”
“Stop.”
Clint kept silent and watched the man. Coleman was working on something inside of him, trying to come to a decision.
“Okay,” he said, finally.
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, I can shoot.”
“When you say you can shoot . . .”
“I’m sayin’,” Coleman replied, “that there was a time in my life when I was you, Clint Adams.”
Clint was taken aback by that statement.
“What are you saying?”
“Oh, I don’t mean I was anywhere near as famous as you,” Coleman said, “but when I was in my late twenties I was feelin’ my oats. I could outdraw any man alive—or so I thought. I could pretty much hit anythin’ I shot at.”
“So what happened?”
“I stopped,” Coleman said. “I saw where I was headed, and I stopped. Started working cattle, kept my gun in the holster as much as I could.”
Coleman had been looking into his coffee cup while he spoke. Now he looked up and locked eyes with Clint.
“I could have easily led the life you’ve led, although probably not as well,” Coleman said. “I probably would’ve been dead by now—maybe even killed by you, at some point. Or, in any case, a better man.”
“There’s always a better man.”
“You know that?”
“Of course I do,” Clint said. “I hoping never to meet him, but I’m sure he’s out there. . . somewhere.”
The two men sat in silence for a few moments.
“So you’ve killed before, when you had to?”
“For a while I killed just because I could,” he said, “but over the past twenty years or so—yeah, when I had to.”
“So you can still use your gun?”
“That doesn’t go away, Clint,” Coleman said. “You know that.”
