House of Winslow 14 The Valiant Gunman

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Maybe he will not like me. He’s young enough to marry again. If he does, his wife wouldn’t want me around.”

  “Now, that’s foolish talk,” Winslow protested. “Logan needs you, and if he marries again, his wife will love you, too.”

  Tears came into her eyes, and when he saw them he was alarmed. “Why, Rosa, there’s no need for you to cry.”

  “I’m afraid!”

  It was the first time she’d ever admitted a weakness, and the confession seemed to cause something in her to break loose. She began to tremble, then to sob uncontrollably. Without thought Dan put his arms around her and she fell against him, pressing her face against his chest and holding to him fiercely.

  Dan, caught off guard by the girl’s vulnerability, held her, not knowing what to say. Finally she grew quiet and lifted her head. Tears ran down her cheeks, and her dark eyes were enormous. “Nobody has ever loved me—” she whispered.

  He stopped and kissed her cheek, saying, “Why, Rosa, that’s all over!”

  She was holding his arm tightly, and more than anything she’d ever wanted, she longed for this strong man to hold her, to care for her.

  But Dan was suddenly aware that this was no child he was holding, but a woman, desirable and beautiful. He took a sharp breath and stepped back. “You’re just worn out from the trip, Rosa.” He patted her shoulder awkwardly. “We’ll be at the ranch in a few days, and you’ll be fine.”

  She stared at him with a strange and unfathomable look in her eyes. She had never felt toward a man what she had just felt toward Dan Winslow. And he had not responded, except to pat her shoulder. She said good-night in a strained voice, then walked away and climbed into the wagon.

  Dan stared after her, knowing that she had been offended, but he had been too conscious of her for his own comfort. He went to bed at once, but sleep came slowly to both him and Rosa that night.

  Sid Kincaid, who had observed the entire scene from his blankets under the wagon, thought: The big fellow may know how to handle cows—but he sure don’t savvy women!

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  END OF A DREAM

  The first sign of trouble came the second day after they had crossed the South Platte, and it came so mildly that Winslow paid almost no heed to it. He was eating pancakes and molasses at the time, and when Diego rode in with the report that three of the cows seemed to be ailing, he had not given it much thought. “Probably that alkaline water they had didn’t agree with them,” he told Diego.

  “Me, I don’t think so,” Diego shrugged. “They don’t look so good.”

  Winslow finished his breakfast and nodded toward Rosa. “Good pancakes, Rosa.” But he got no answering smile from her, which bothered him. She had been quiet—even morose—for a week, not speaking with him except when forced to. Winslow decided that she was still worried about leaving her people and how it would be when she was with her father. Getting to his feet, he saddled his horse and rode out to relieve Mateo and Pedro, saying, “I can handle them. Both of you go get some grub.”

  He rode around the herd, which was grazing quietly, and soon found the ailing cattle. They did look sick, just as Diego had said. All three of them were standing motionless with their heads down, not eating. Dan dismounted, and when he walked toward them, they didn’t shy—which was unusual. He went over them carefully, finding nothing obviously wrong. Their eyes looked yellowish and they seemed to be over-heated, but not excessively so. Puzzled and a little worried, he wondered if they would be able to keep up. “Have to keep an eye on them,” he murmured as he got back on his horse.

  An hour later they were on the move, and as he had feared, the three sick cows lagged behind. “Keep them moving, Pedro,” he called out sharply. When they stopped at noon, he went to eat but said almost nothing. He returned to the herd after lunch, and immediately Diego rode over to him, his face tense. “Señor Dan, four more of the cows are sick.”

  Dan stared at the thin vaquero, and a fear began building in him. He said nothing, but followed Diego to look at the cattle. They were listless, and now it was obvious that the first three that had taken sick were running a fever. “What do you think?” he asked Diego.

  “Could be not too bad,” Diego said slowly. “We will maybe have to slow down until we see if they get well.”

  But the next morning, one of the first three animals to get sick was down; there was no question that she was dying. The others had gotten worse, and Dan’s lips grew thin. “It’s bad,” he said. “We’ll cut the sick ones out and leave them, Diego. Maybe it won’t spread to the rest.”

  But it did spread, and when they found more than twenty sick head the next day, they knew the worst. Sid Kincaid had a look at the afflicted cattle and said to Diego, “It’s Texas tick fever, I’m afraid.”

  “Sí, señor,” the Mexican agreed. “I have seen it before. I feel very bad for Señor Dan.”

  “He’ll lose this herd, or most of it,” Kincaid nodded. “I was with Shanghai Pierce on a drive to Abilene three years ago. We got hit by tick fever, and lost half the herd—over three thousand head had to be shot.”

  “It is in God’s hand,” Diego said softly, then added, “but my heart is sad that such a thing should happen to a good man like Señor Dan.”

  At first Rosa knew nothing about the extent of the sickness. She thought that it was only a matter of a few cows. But finally it became obvious that something was seriously wrong with the whole herd, and she asked Sid, “What’s happening to the cattle?” When he explained, she sobered at once. “Will they all die?”

  “Most of ’em, I guess. When it gets started, tick fever is just about like a plague. Spreads like wildfire, and there’s no way to treat it. Just shoot the sick animals and hope it burns itself out.”

  “How awful!”

  “Going to be hard on Dan,” Sid said slowly. “He’s worked like a slave to build up this herd. Hate to see it.”

  “Maybe it will stop,” she said hopefully, but saw that Sid had given up. “We can hope, can’t we?”

  But as the days went by, she heard the cracks of revolver shots each morning as the sick cattle were destroyed. She found herself counting them, willing them to stop—but each day there were more. All the fun went out of the drive, and Winslow said nothing at all to anyone. He never smiled now and slept little. Rosa tried to get him to eat, but he merely sampled the food, not even hearing her, apparently.

  It could not continue long, and two weeks after the first cow went down, there were fewer than fifty healthy cattle left. The Mexicans were embarrassed, not knowing what to do with themselves. Finally, one morning, Winslow said, “Diego, no sense you and the boys hanging around here.” He stepped forward and handed some bills to the men, saying, “You did a good job.”

  Diego was stricken and tried to argue. “It is too much, Señor Dan,” he said. “We agreed on this for the whole drive.”

  “Not your fault,” Dan shrugged and forced a smile. “You get on back to Texas. Maybe I’ll come down and pick up another herd next year.”

  “I would like that very much, señor,” Diego said quietly. There was nothing more he could say to this big man whom he respected more than any gringo he’d known. He spoke to Pedro and Mateo, and when they had gathered their belongings and tied them to their horses, they mounted and with a wave rode out of camp.

  Feeling the eyes of Rosa and Sid on him, Dan turned to face them. “Those are fine people,” he said quietly. Casting his eyes toward the shrunken herd, he said, “I don’t think we’ll make it with any of these. It’ll be a real disappointment to your dad, Rosa.”

  Wearily, he climbed on his horse and left, and soon Rosa heard the sound of gunshots. She and Sid counted them. “Seven more dead,” she said.

  Sid shook his head. “Too bad, Rosa.” He was standing beside the wagon, looking toward the herd but thinking of Winslow. “Hope this don’t get him down,” he murmured. “Seen it do that to a few.”

  “Do what, Sid?”

 
Sid put his weight on his right foot, testing it carefully. “Almost well,” he said, then looked up and answered her question. “When a man’s got a big dream, and it don’t happen—it can eat him alive. Sure would hate to see that happen to Dan.”

  “He won’t give up,” she said quickly. “He’s a hard man.”

  “You think so?” Sid asked. Shaking his head, he said, “Maybe so, in some ways. But when a thing like this happens, it’s like getting shot. I got shot once, down in Val Verde. Knocked me down and I was wide awake. I wanted to keep on fighting, but my arms and legs wouldn’t work. I was trying to get up, but it was like all my nerves were dead, and all I could do was just give up.”

  Rosa stared at him. “It’s only cattle, Sid.”

  “No, it’s Dan’s dream. And if a man’s got a dream, it don’t matter much what it is. Can be climbing a mountain or having a son or breaking the bank at a gambling joint. It ain’t so much what the dream is, Rosa. What means something is that he’s actually got one. That’s what keeps us going and makes the mornings good and the air smell sweet. But if it gets smashed—” He shook his head, a sadness in his hazel eyes. “I seen quite a few whose dream got ruined, and they lived for quite a while, but they wasn’t really alive.”

  Rosa couldn’t believe what Sid was saying. “But there are more cattle. My father is up ahead with the herd he brought. Dan can get more cattle. He said so to Diego.”

  Sid slowly rolled a cigarette and lit it. “Sure do hope so, Rosa. I’m right partial to that big fellow!”

  ****

  They crossed the line that divided Colorado and Wyoming with twenty-seven head, all that had survived the virulent fever. Two days later they crossed the Union Pacific Railroad, a long sweep of track stretching east and west. That night at supper Sid spoke to Winslow about leaving.

  “Dan, if you’ll stake me to a horse, I’ll leave you here.” He nodded toward the east, adding, “I can find some sort of a riding job, maybe in the stockyard in Cheyenne.”

  Dan glanced at him, but shook his head. “Your foot’s not ready for hard work yet, Sid.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Rosa was frying potatoes in the large black skillet. She shifted them with a fork, and said at once, “No, it’s not. If you try to work cattle, you’ll be back on crutches again.”

  Sid snapped angrily, “Well, I can’t sponge off you the rest of my life, Dan!”

  “Don’t guess you eat enough to be a problem, Sid. And when we get to the ranch, you can start in slowly. Rosa’s right. You don’t need to twist that ankle around too much for a month or so.”

  Rosa brought the pan to where Sid was sitting. “That’s enough talk about leaving. Hold your plate out.”

  Sid muttered, “And you don’t have to treat me like a child, either.”

  Rosa ignored him, moved to Dan and filled his plate with fried potatoes. He had been eating better, she had noticed, and gave him a double portion. “How much farther is it to the ranch?” she asked.

  Dan stabbed a big bunch of potatoes with his fork, shoved them in his mouth, and sputtered, “These are hot, Rosa!” He spat out half of them and chewed the rest carefully, thinking about the trail ahead. “Best I can figure, less than a hundred miles. We can make it in a few days.” He stabbed another smaller forkful of the hot potatoes, blowing on them this time before putting them in his mouth. “Sure be glad to get there. Losing the herd was a hard thing for me. I’d like to get it behind and start with something fresh.”

  It was the first time he’d commented on the loss of the herd, and his remark caused Sid and Rosa to exchange a swift glance. They had been worried about Winslow, for he had taken it hard. But now he seemed more cheerful. Later Rosa said to Sid, “See, he’s all right. I told you he would be.”

  That night Sid insisted on taking a turn on horseback to watch the cattle. “Got to keep in practice,” he said, allowing Dan to saddle up for him. He got into the saddle carefully, but once mounted, he grinned. “Well, if I don’t fall off, I’ll see you after a while.”

  He walked his horse off, and Rosa said, “I’m glad you didn’t let him go to Cheyenne.” She was washing the dishes with water from the creek that ran close by, her nightly chore. “He’s not ready to work yet.”

  “Don’t guess there’ll be enough work to hire him when we get to the ranch,” Dan shrugged. “But he can rest up until he’s able to get a riding job.” He poked at the ground with his knife, cleaning the blade in the sandy soil. Looking up, he remarked, “Guess I’ve been pretty poor company lately.”

  She lifted her eyes to him and said gently, “I’m sorry about the cattle. I know what it’s like to lose everything.”

  “Why—it was only cattle, Rosa,” he protested.

  “I know, but you’d worked so hard for them,” she said. “I didn’t like to see you hurting.”

  Her words brought his eyes up, and he said, “Well, it’ll pass.” He folded the knife and put it away. “You feeling better about being with your dad?”

  “I—think so.” She tried to smile, not quite successfully. “It’s just that I’ll be a stranger—and a foreigner, Señor Dan.”

  “Hey, that’s not right!” he protested. “You’ll have a dad and me and Sid. And will you please stop calling me señor? Makes me feel like some kind of a government official!”

  She laughed at that, and there was an ease between them. “All right—Dan. But I’m half-Mexican. People will call me ‘bean-eater’ or ‘greaser.’ ”

  Winslow said grimly, “Not when I’m around!”

  She crossed her arms and gave him a sly smile. “Didn’t you ever call a Mexican those names?” Then she laughed at his expression. “Oh, Dan, it’s all right. You should hear some of the names we call you gringos!”

  As the fire burned down, they sat there talking quietly as the darkness closed in, drinking the black coffee. A little later they heard Sid singing in his smooth baritone:

  I’m up in the mornin’ afore daylight

  And afore I sleep the moon shines bright.

  No chaps and no slicker, and it’s pouring down rain,

  And I swear I’ll never night-herd again.

  Oh, it’s bacon and beans most every day—

  I’d as soon be a-eatin’ prairie hay.

  I went to the boss to draw my roll,

  He had it figured out I was nine dollars in the hole.

  I’ll sell my horse, and I’ll sell my saddle;

  You can go to blazes with your longhorn cattle.

  Finally Winslow rose and stretched. “Well, guess I’ll sleep a little.” He looked out into the dusky night, shook his head, and remarked, “I’ve lost enough sleep over that herd. Man can’t go around with a long face forever because he has a little bad luck. Good-night, Rosa.”

  “Good-night, Dan.”

  ****

  A light rain fell as they broke camp the following Friday, laying a silver glaze on the land. It settled the dust and brought a fine vigor to Winslow as he climbed into the saddle. They had made good time, and now he was anxious to find Logan and put an end to the drive. He had not let it sour him, but disappointment had been a keen pang, for he’d wanted to bring a fine herd to the new ranch.

  Rosa had asked him to saddle her horse, and the two of them got the cattle started. All morning they traveled steadily, always on an inclined plane. At noon they took a break, and Sid built a fire and heated some beans and the meat they’d had the night before. As they ate, Rosa asked, “How much farther, Dan?”

  “Not far.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his vest pocket, smoothed it out, and pointed at it as he spoke. “See that bluff right over there—the one with the red face? Here it is on Logan’s map. ’Course this map was made by the fellow he bought the place from, so he couldn’t guarantee how accurate it is, but it looks like we ought to hit the ranch by dark.”

  They moved ahead all afternoon, and both Dan and Sid were impressed with the quality of the country. “If your place looks lik
e this,” Sid said, “you’ll be able to raise good cattle. Never saw a better piece of country.”

  Finally at four-thirty Dan drew to a halt beside a small creek. A few cows were drinking, and Dan squinted at the brands, then grinned at Rosa. “We’re close. Those are Circle W cows.” He studied the lay of the land. “This is Clear Creek, I think. See how it follows the line of rising ground that goes to the bench country? Just like on the map. Sid, it’s getting too late to move the cattle. You and Rosa camp here and keep an eye on them while I find the place.”

  “Oh, Dan, let me go with you!” Rosa begged. “I want to see it.”

  “Guess you can,” he grinned. “Give old Logan a surprise.”

  They left, and Rosa grew more excited and a little nervous. “He hasn’t seen me since I was twelve,” she said, searching the distance for a house. “I wonder if he’ll be satisfied.”

  “He’ll probably faint,” Dan said. “I imagine he’s got a little girl in pigtails in his mind. Now he’ll have to oil up his shotgun to keep half the punchers in this valley run off from chasing his grown-up daughter.”

  There was an air of expectancy in them both, and in less than an hour they crested a rise. There in the valley before them lay a small ranch house. Winslow looked up, nodded toward a sheer bluff that rose in the west, and said, “That’s the place, right where the map shows it. Let’s go see your dad.”

  They rode down the slope, passing many cattle, mostly bearing the Arrow brand but with a few Circle W cows among them. “Don’t know about this,” he said. “What are all these Arrow cows doing mixed in with our stock?” His nerves began to tingle, and even Rosa was alarmed and puzzled. When they got to the house, two men came out to greet them. The one who spoke was young, no more than twenty-five, and wore a fancy vest and hat. “You looking for the way to War Paint?” he asked. He was very blond, his hair worn long like Custer’s and Wild Bill’s. But he was more than a dandy, Dan sensed. There was something dangerous about him. He wore two guns low on his thighs, something that Winslow noted with interest.