Billy’s eyes met Jase Thornhill’s squarely. The others sensed the charged atmosphere and stood waiting, expectantly. In the sudden stillness Billy’s voice was cold steel.
“That’s something else that’ll wait till Abilene, Jase,” he said slowly.
The spell was broken by a commotion down at the barn. All eyes turned that way and saw two Circle 8 riders leading out the Lazy S mounts.
“What about our guns?” Jase asked Billy.
Old Thad exploded, almost jumping up and down in his nightshirt in his anger. “Of all the damned crust I ever…!”
Billy turned to Joe. “Let’s see those guns.”
Joe held out an armload of belts and holstered guns. Billy slipped one out and unloaded it. Then he began removing cartridges from the belt loops, stuffing them in his pockets. Joe Metcalf started doing the same with the others.
“There you are,” Billy pointed to the pile when they’d finished. “Help yourself.”
While the Lazy S crew buckled on their harmless armament, Old Thad sidled up to Billy. “I think you’re lettin’ these skunks off a mite too easy.”
Billy gave him a wry smile. “Maybe,” he agreed. Then he turned to watch them mount their horses. But he was thinking that he had good reason for what he was doing. He’d gain little by revenge. Fair play at a time like this would maybe make a better impression. Who could tell? It was a long way to Abilene. A lot could happen. People would have time to think—about a lot of things. Maybe even change their minds. Forget old grudges. Some people were forgetting there’d been a war—or a North and South. Maybe others could, in time. Like Jase, maybe. Abilene might help. A Northern market for Texas cattle. Men trying to work together again for their mutual good. Maybe even Jase Thornhill would be able to see that.
* * * *
“Now, Martha!” old Thad was saying half an hour later as he stood with Billy Condo and Joe Metcalf beside their saddled mounts. “There’s nothin’ gonna happen, so don’t get all in a tizzy. Jase Thornhill won’t bother you none at all. He’s as anxious to get a herd to Abilene as I am. He’s probably sorry he wasted all his time tonight with that damfool scheme to get Billy hung as a rustler. Besides, if anybody does come around here these four boys I’m leavin’ with you can take care of ’em. Now you just sit back and dream of all the fancy gewgaws you can buy with the sackful of money I’m gonna bring back.”
But Billy noticed as the old man swung aboard his horse that there was a vague mistiness about his eyes and that the gruffness in his voice sounded a little forced. There was handshaking all round, and then the trio rode out of the yard amid last-minute shouts and well-wishes.
As they left the trees and started out across the swell of the prairie, Billy found himself searching for the North Star. “What time do you reckon it is?” he asked.
“Heard the clock on the mantel strike twelve just as I was gettin’ dressed to leave,” Thad said.
Billy’s eyes began searching back and forth among the cloud shadows moving lowly across the plain. Or, rather, the clouds had grown bigger and closer together until it seemed that the patches of moonlight moved instead.
“Lookin’ for somethin’, Billy?” It was Joe Metcalf.
Billy nodded. “Little worried about Will Pryor’s bunch. Should’ve heard from them before this.”
They rode on in silence, each thinking the same thing. The Lazy S men who’d ridden out with rifles had been pretty drunk, even Jase Thornhill had complained about that. Some people might turn back from a pistol ambush—but a bunch of drunken fools…
“Hold up!” Billy called suddenly. The three drew rein.
“What’s up?” Old Thad asked.
“Riders,” Billy said quietly. “They just went down behind that second rise.”
“Headed which way?” Joe asked.
“This way,” Billy told him.
They waited silently, watching the crest of the rise for the horsemen to reappear. The bulk of cloud shadow moved over the rise, leaving it in darkness. Billy shifted uneasily in his saddle. The patches of moonlight were scarcer now.
“How many?” Thad wanted to know.
Billy shook his head. “Didn’t have time to count ’em. It could be Will Pryor’s bunch. Then—on the other hand…”
He left the rest unsaid as dim figures moved over the shadowed rise. The swirling clouds parted momentarily, letting a patch of moonlight through on the moving horsemen. Billy began to count out loud. “One, two, three…four.” His face relaxed. “That’ll be Will. Let’s see how they made out.”
The three rode on, pulling their hats a little firmer on their heads in deference to the rising wind.
“Wind’s pickin’ up a little,” Joe Metcalf shouted.
Billy nodded, glancing apprehensively at the swirling clouds which now were almost devoid of light. Then he turned to face the four men who were coming up the slope in front of them.
“Somethin’s up,” Old Thad yelled. “They’re ridin’ fast.”
Billy noticed Thad was right and wondered about it. The three pulled up and waited. Will Pryor broke his mount to a stop. Even in the dim light Billy could see the worried lines in the rider’s face.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Wolf Creek,” Will said. “It’s way up. There must have been a lot of rain to the north and west. We’d have gone straight back to the herd if it hadn’t been for what you said about comin’ after you if you wasn’t back by midnight.”
“You did right, though,” Billy told him. “We damn near needed you—bad. But—how’d you make out?”
Will Pryor grinned. “We got to fire about a round apiece, that’s all. They must’ve thought it was a Comanche raid, judgin’ from the way they got the hell out of there.”
“Nobody hurt?” Billy asked.
“None of us,” Will told him. “I doubt if any of them was hit. We didn’t try.”
Old Thad nodded approval. “That’s good. Been enough trouble for one night.”
“What happened?” one of the others asked.
Billy was looking at the sky. He noticed Joe Metcalf doing the same and their eyes met. Both nodded.
“We’d better tell you about that later,” Billy said. “Right now I reckon we’d better try to catch up with the herd. From the looks of things, there’s a storm brewing. If we get thunder and lightning Shorty’ll play hell holding those cows with just four men.”
As the seven of them turned their horses and headed northeast, Will Pryor shouted into the wind, “I just hope we can make it!”
“How far is the herd?” Joe yelled back.
“That ain’t what I mean,” Will told him, shaking his head. “Herd can’t be more’n eight or ten miles the way we’re headed. What worries me is Wolf Creek—you’ve seen it before, Joe, when there’s been a big thunderstorm upstream.”
Joe Metcalf nodded and looked at Billy.
“How high was it, Will?” Billy yelled, leaning into the wind as he rode.
“Belly deep on a tall stallion and comin’ up fast!”
Further words were lost in the pounding beat of hoofs and the shrill whine of the rising wind.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They had to ride more slowly as they drew near the creek. Familiar landmarks were swallowed in darkness now, for the last vestige of moonlight had disappeared behind the lowering clouds. Billy was in the lead as they picked their cautious way down the approach to the watercourse. He was figuring, and rightly, perhaps, that what happened to the herd now was his responsibility. Not only because he had agreed to trail boss, but because he had made the decision to move it east with only four men to handle it. That couldn’t be helped under the circumstances, and he knew it. But he also knew that a trail boss and a ship’s captain had a lot in common—both had to bring their charges through, regardless of wind and weather, and both w
ere responsible for their own decisions. If they made their destinations without incident, it would be taken for granted—if they failed they would have to answer why.
He heard the creek before he saw it. The deep rumble of rushing water could be heard above the wind. Occasionally there came the grinding screech of a tree trunk as it was torn between rocks or crunched against another trunk. Somewhere close in the darkness Billy heard a section of bank give way with a tumbling splash as the plunging water undermined the confining walls. Then, faintly, his eyes adjusted to the dark and he could see it, a turgid, boiling mass that twisted and heaved like a thing alive.
“We’ll never make it!” Old Thad yelled in his ear.
Billy was inclined to agree. But if just one man could get through… One extra man would mean a lot in handling a herd at a time like this. He turned the dun and rode downstream a ways, taking care not to go too close to the edge where the banks were high lest they cave under the weight of the dun. When he came to a spot where the bank sloped gradually down to the water’s edge he stopped.
“You thinkin’ of tryin’ it?” he heard a voice beside him say.
He turned to see Joe Metcalf beside him. Billy knew then that his feeling of responsibility was shared. This wouldn’t be the first time, he guessed, that Joe Metcalf had worried a herd through a northwester—and it was probably far from the last. Billy looked back at the raging water and asked the foreman, “What do you think, Joe?”
“The same damn thing you’re thinkin’,” he said, and Billy saw the white flash of teeth as he grinned in the darkness.
“There’ll probably be quicksand here,” Billy commented. It wasn’t a happy thought. If a horse bogged down for a minute in that torrent it would be the last, probably, of both horse and rider.
“Probably,” Joe replied.
Billy surveyed the opposite bank as well as he could in the poor light. It had a gentle slope, if he crossed at an angle he’d come out about right. If he came out at all.
“I never thought of it before, Joe, but I think Texas could use a few bridges.”
“Sure,” Joe said, “say about every two miles along Wolf Creek, for instance?”
“For instance,” Billy agreed.
They fell silent for a minute. Both knew that the light chatter they’d been making covered the way they felt. No man, Billy guessed, liked to think a herd of cows was worth as much as he was. And yet that was about the way you had to weigh it up at a time like this. If they got across, they might stand a chance of helping Shorty Long hold the herd when the northwester hit. If they didn’t—well…
There was one thing to be thankful for, he knew. The storm was building up fairly gradually. It might be rough when it came, but at least it wasn’t the kind that came sweeping down, crossing from horizon to horizon in the space of twenty minutes or so, with a long black roll cloud in front and plenty of weather inside. And they needed the time.
Old Thad came up. He could tell from the way the two of them sat there just what they were thinking.
“It ain’t worth it, fellers,” he sighed aloud.
“What ain’t?” Joe yelled back.
“Riskin’ your neck for a bunch of cows. Anyway, Shorty’ll…”
“He’s thinkin’ about the cows,” Joe said to Billy, hollering into the wind.
“Cows? T’hell with the cows! I’m thinking about my bedroll in that wagon. It’s going to rain soon, and I want to be in my soogans under a poncho when it does.”
“Now wait a minute,” the old man began. But that was as far as he got.
Billy drove the dun forward, felt the horse hesitate, then plunge into the boiling stream, shuddering as the cold water closed around his chest. The dun was swimming, clawing frantically for a foothold, and Billy could feel them being swirled along by the current. Dimly he heard the yells of those on the bank, shouting, encouragement.
Their sideways movement stopped suddenly, and Billy felt the dun putting its feet down. In the next instant he heard the animal let out a frantic whinny and felt the gummy struggling of the locked forefeet. Cold sweat closed over his entire body as the realization struck home. The dun had put down in quicksand.
“Come on, boy!” Billy yelled, then he gritted his teeth and raked his spurs under water. The dun whinnied pitifully and struggled under the punishing steel. Billy felt the water rising as the struggles dragged the animal more firmly into the quicksand.
With vicious jabs he drove the heels of his boots hard again and again, hating himself for the punishment he was giving, and damning the necessity with loud profanity. Every loud scream of pain raked his conscience as he felt his spurs drive home. And yet he knew it was the only thing to do, to drive the frantic animal beyond its own strength in the hope that the frenzied struggles might pull the forefront free.
“Come on, boy!” he yelled again, gritting his teeth and jabbing the spurs until his legs ached.
Once, Billy looked back. There was nothing behind them but an overhanging bank some twenty yards away. They had been drifted rapidly downstream, out of sight of the others. Even if Joe or somebody did spot them in the darkness Billy doubted if the weakened overhang behind him would support a horse and rider long enough to heave a rope.
He found himself grabbing for the horn as a sudden rush of water nearly knocked him from the saddle. As he pulled upright he felt an exultant surge sweep through him and at first he wondered why. Then he knew—the dun had been washed free, they were moving! There was sand in his eyes and nose and mouth and he had come up coughing and spitting the water he had swallowed. He couldn’t see, yet, but he didn’t care—not as long as he felt the horse beneath him, swimming. Then they were on the far bank, the dun’s sides heaving as it slipped and clambered, clawing for a grip in the mud. On hard ground again the horse stood, forefeet spread, head down, blowing and gasping for wind. Billy found he’d lost his hat, but just then he decided he didn’t give a damn.
“Condo!”
The cry seemed to come from far away, borne on the wind. Billy raised his head wearily, peering into the darkness across the raging stream. He reached down and patted the dun on the neck, felt the muscles quiver and flinch from his touch.
“I don’t blame you, old fella,” he murmured, “I gave you a pretty rough time.”
The cry came again and he knew the others would be anxious about him. He straightened himself with an effort, feeling the weariness of the day’s events suddenly descend on him all at once. He eased the dun ahead, riding upstream along the bank until he caught sight of dim figures on the opposite side peering intently into the gloom.
Someone caught sight of him and yelled to the others, “There he is!” It sounded like Joe Metcalf.
“How’d it go?” That was Thad Harper.
Billy yelled across, “Got caught in quicksand. Damn near didn’t make it. Better try a little farther down where I saw rocks along the bank. Probably get better footing there.”
The others waved and nodded in acknowledgment and he rode downstream to point out the spot.
Just below where Billy had finally made the crossing he’d noticed the creek widened a little and both banks sloped gently. There were rocks scattered about and it looked like solid footing. He yelled and pointed to indicate that this was the place he’d meant. He saw the others stop for a minute; then a horse and rider detached themselves from the group and plunged into the swirling water, sending up a shower of spray that carried away on the wind.
Billy watched, trying to make out the rider’s features in the dark. It was too far for him to tell. The horse was swimming as soon as it hit the water, but every now and then Billy saw it rise a little and stumble along as if it had found footing. When it reached the near bank Billy could see the rider was Joe.
“I wish I’d crossed here,” Billy told him.
“It wasn’t too bad,” Joe admitted. “But we go
t kind of worried when you took so long. Thought you’d gone under.”
“Damn near did,” Billy admitted. “Lost a good hat, too.”
Joe was yelling for the next man to come ahead. Then both sat quietly and watched the performance repeated. It went on until only Thad Harper was left on the far bank.
“What do you think?” Billy asked Joe. “Think he ought to try it?”
Joe shrugged. “I don’t know. It ain’t too bad. Besides, that old coot is tough as boot leather,” he said, not disrespectfully.
Still, Billy watched apprehensively as Old Thad plunged his horse into the creek. He was sure Joe hadn’t noticed how the creek suddenly narrowed just beyond. Billy had watched that spot as each rider crossed, noting the boiling waters just beyond where the narrow spot emptied into a whirlpool. He’d seen cattle sucked under and drowned in places not half as bad. Then he noticed that Thad seemed to be doing all right and relaxed.
“Damn! Look at that log!” Joe suddenly exploded.
Billy looked. A heavy cottonwood trunk, wrenched from its roots upstream, was bearing down on the horse and rider. He watched its progress as it bobbed on the murky surface, twisting wildly as the water rushed it along. It was hard to see in the darkness and he was sure Old Thad hadn’t noticed.
Joe Metcalf cupped his hands and yelled a warning. Old Thad came on, oblivious to the danger.
“He can’t hear you,” Billy said despairingly.
The old man was in mid-stream now, his horse swimming nicely. In a minute he would be coming up the near bank for dry land.
“Looks like he’ll make it all right now,” Joe said, relieved.
Suddenly Thad’s mount faltered. Billy tensed. Maybe there was a patch of quicksand here, too. He eased the dun to the water’s edge, and the others crowded after him, leaving room to one side for Thad to come up. The old man’s horse surged ahead, then slipped to its knees, the water closing over its withers. Billy groaned out loud.
“Thad! Thad—the log!” he yelled.
Thad was close enough to hear him now. Billy saw the look on the old man’s face at the sight of the heavy trunk bearing down on him, saw him spur his horse in desperation. The animal slipped and stumbled, clawing its way toward the bank. Then Billy saw the mount’s head disappear, and only Thad was to be seen, hanging to the horse beneath him, sweeping along with the current with only his head above water.
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