She had never been out of control. That had been her mother's cardinal rule in life. Run away if you must, but never lose control.
But Iris had lost control, of Monty and of herself. And of Frank.
She spotted Frank at the campfire talking and laughing as though nothing had happened. She didn't understand why he wasn't still brooding over his humiliation. It wasn't like him to forget so quickly. He was hard and vindictive. She wondered if he was planning some kind of retaliation. That made her uncomfortable. She might be furious with Monty, she might want to see him brought down a peg, but she didn't want to see Frank do it.
Iris walked over to the campfire. The sound of the rough grass against her boots sounded unnaturally loud. She waited until Frank got his dinner from the cook. When he sat down, she walked over and sat down next to him.
"Are you certain you can get us to Wyoming?" she asked.
"Of course," Frank answered. "Why do you ask?" He looked at her kind of funny. She didn't like it.
"I guess because Monty's so insistent I go back."
"I don't know what his game is, but I wouldn't trust him. I don't trust any of those Randolphs."
"My father did."
"And your father was losing cows."
"You can't think they had anything to do with that."
"They didn't lose any, did they?"
"No, but--"
"Don't trust them, that's what I say."
Iris couldn't say why Frank's attitude should irritate her so, but she practically had to clamp her mouth shut to stop herself from defending Monty. "Getting to Wyoming is what I'm worried about right now, not the trustworthiness of the Randolphs. But I must say I'd rather not have him on my heels stomping mad."
"Don't let him bother you. He's just upset you didn't follow his advice. All the Randolphs are like that. Think they know best about everything. I'll see he doesn't come around here again."
"I imagine he'll stay with his own men from now on, but I don't want any trouble between our crews," Iris said, suddenly aware she would rather have Monty around than Frank.
"You let one of the boys see him with his hands on you, and there's going to be trouble for sure."
"That was my fault," Iris admitted. "I said something I shouldn't."
"I bet it wasn't undeserved."
"Maybe not, but I shouldn't have said it. It won't happen again."
"I was only meaning to--"
"I don't want any trouble. We might need his help before this drive is over."
"We won't." Frank got up. "It's about time you turned in. The first watch will be going out soon."
Iris resented Frank telling her what to do, but she headed toward her wagon. She hurried along. She was used to well-lighted rooms and illuminated paths in protected gardens. Inky shadows made her uneasy.
The wagon stood out as though it were meant to be the center of attention. It had been her mother's traveling wagon. Her father had had it built to Helena's exacting requirements. Twice as large as an ordinary wagon, it contained a bed on a raised platform with four large drawers underneath, a specially designed wardrobe, and a dressing table. The bed was piled high with pillows in case her mother wanted to relax while traveling, and a comfortable chair was provided for the dressing table. There was also a small table with two chairs for dining. Despite the reassuring luxury, Iris wasn't entirely comfortable until she had lighted the four oil lamps hanging from ribs which supported a particularly thick canvas to protect her from the southern Texas sun. It had seemed only logical to Iris she should bring the wagon for her personal accommodation. It never occurred to her to sleep on the ground or pack her clothes in a bedroll.
Monty dominated Iris's thoughts as she prepared for bed. She couldn't understand why he was so determined she not go to Wyoming. She looked at herself in her mirror. She looked the same as always. The sun had neither faded her hair nor ruined her complexion. Maybe he just didn't like her. He surely didn't like being anywhere near her.
That angered Iris, but it also hurt her feelings. Why should Monty dislike her so? She continued to think of it until she put out the lamps and slipped into bed, but she couldn't come up with an answer.
For a long time she lay there unable to sleep. She wasn't tired, and her mind was weighed down by questions that had no answers, worries which seemed to have no solutions. At least no answers or solutions she liked.
Gradually she became aware of another feeling. Loneliness. It was a cold and empty feeling she had fallen prey to more and more frequently since her parents' death. As she struggled to deal with the mountain of debt, the tangled accounts, the shock of discovering the money she had always taken for granted was gone, she also discovered she had no friends, no one she could turn to for advice, no one who made her feel better because she knew they were there.
Nobody except Monty.
But he wasn't her friend anymore. She hadn't known when she decided to put her herd on the trail ahead of him she'd be alienating the only person she might be able to depend on. But she knew it now.
Now she had to find some way to overcome his anger. She was too tired to think of it tonight, but she'd start on it first thing in the morning. She had to have Monty's help.
* * * * *
Iris was up early. The men were just waking when she reached the chuckwagon. Having slept in their clothes, they only had to put on their hats and boots to be ready to ride. Iris studied them as they ate their breakfast, put up their bedrolls, and bucked the fidgets out of their morning mounts. They all seemed relaxed, joking and happy, but she couldn't rid herself of the feeling that things weren't going as well as they seemed.
Iris had never paid any real attention to the workings of the ranch. Both her parents had concentrated on her winning a place in St. Louis society, but over the years she had absorbed a great deal of unconscious knowledge about cows. She knew the grass was thin and poor for this time of year. She also noticed there was very little water in some streams. Others were dry. She remembered hearing Monty say they had had a dry winter following a very dry summer.
There had been virtually no spring rains. Even the flowers that usually lasted into May were fading. At first she had been thankful because the hard ground meant easy travel. But now she realized it was more important that the cattle had water to drink.
"Don't worry about it," Frank had said when she mentioned it to him. "There's plenty of water along the trail. There always is, or this trail wouldn't be used by every drover in Texas."
They had found enough water so far, but the worst stretches were still ahead. She remembered her father telling stories of dry springs and empty creeks. She had asked Frank why he didn't send a man forward each day to locate water.
"I know where it is," he told her, visibly irritated she continued to question him. "I know this trail like the back of my hand."
But she couldn't forget that Monty had been as scornful of Frank's knowledge as he had been of her own. Despite Frank's assurances, that bothered her. People said many things about Monty, not all of them nice, but everybody agreed on one thing. Monty was the best cattleman in his part of Texas. When he talked, everybody listened.
Except Frank.
Iris hated feeling ignorant and stupid, so she decided as of this moment to start changing that. She would ride with the herd. That was one thing she could do. Even Monty used to compliment her on her horsemanship. He ought to. He had helped teach her to ride.
Iris returned to her wagon. Minutes later she emerged dressed for riding. She felt a little unsure of herself. It had been years since she had done anything beyond drive a buggy or ride in a carriage. Her dress was old and fitted too tightly, especially around her breasts. The boots pinched and the hat was stiff with age, but she didn't mind. For the first time in weeks she felt like she belonged.
For a moment she was afraid she wouldn't be able to saddle her horse -- Helena Richmond's daughter had never been allowed to saddle her own horses or mount unassisted -- but she managed wi
th a little help from the cook.
It was a short ride to the herd.
The animals were scattered out over more than a thousand acres about a mile off the trail, grazing as they walked. They stretched in all directions as far as Iris could see. There seemed to be tens of thousands rather than the thirty-seven hundred she had brought. She had a crew of fifteen including the foreman, the cook, and the boy in charge of the remuda, but that didn't seem to be enough men to control a herd this size. A quick calculation told her each of the twelve hands was responsible for more than three hundred cows.
Iris couldn't imagine controlling a dozen. Feeling a bit lost, she was relieved when Frank rode up.
"What are you doing out here?" he asked.
"I'm dependent on those cows to keep me from starving, yet I don't know a thing about them. I've got to learn, and I can't do that from my wagon."
"I'm supposed to handle everything for you."
"I want to know as well. About a trail drive, too."
"There's not much to know. We drift the herd north, letting it graze as much as we can along the way."
"And that's all there is to it?"
"That's about it."
Iris felt certain there was more, but the scene before her looked just as Frank said.
"Now you'd better go back to your wagon," Frank said. "This is no place for a woman. You might get hurt."
"How?" she asked, looking out over the pastoral scene. A cow occasionally lowed for its calf, but young steers and heifers ambled contentedly along, eating their way north with complete unconcern. An occasional cloud drifted by, but the sky was clear and the weather unseasonably hot for April. Already the dried brown heads of Mexican hat and Indian paintbrush had begun to mute the brilliant red. There were no signs of other humans, no cabins, no welcoming smoke curling skyward from a chimney. Iris had never felt so alone in her life.
"All kinds of things can happen."
Iris pushed aside the feeling of isolation. "Why are we so far away from the trail? If everybody grazes their herds all the way, why is there a trail up to seventy-five feet wide?"
"We have to go off the trail to find grass," Frank explained. "The later in the season, the farther. There may be as many as a hundred herds going up this trail before summer's end. We graze the herd about two hours in the morning and about two hours in the evening. During the day, we put them on the trail to cover as many miles as possible before we reach the bedding ground and they graze some more."
Iris peppered her foreman with questions for the rest of the day. By the time they came into camp that evening, he was out of temper and her head was so full of new information she could hardly remember most of it. But for the first time she felt a part of what was happening. She was just as ignorant as Monty had said, but she had started to learn. She hoped it wasn't too late.
As she dismounted, her body stiff, every muscle screaming its protest against so many hours in the saddle, she hobbled to the wagon, certain the men snickered behind her back. She would have given anything for a hot bath, but she had to settle for a pan of water heated over a cook fire.
She longed to change her clothes, but she had nothing suitable except a second and even more ill-fitting riding dress. She didn't even want to think about the blisters on her hands, her broken nails, or her wind-blown hair. It was a good thing Monty couldn't see her now. He probably wouldn't recognize her.
She didn't dare think what her mother would have said. Helena Richmond firmly believed a lady should not only remain as far away from the work of a ranch as possible but she ought to know absolutely nothing about its management.
Iris reminded herself her present dilemma was due to the fact Helena had failed to realize there were limits to the ranch's income, that and her father's frequent absences for months at a time which encouraged rustlers to help themselves to Double-D stock.
It bothered Iris that so many cows could have been rustled without anyone seeming to know about it. She supposed that in the trackless miles of brush, it was difficult to know how many cows you had and where they were. Still, the Randolphs found a way. Why hadn't her father?
Probably because he wasn't nearly as interested as Monty. Everybody knew Monty was in the saddle from dawn until dusk. He never seemed to tire.
Iris could still remember the first time she saw him. Her father had allowed her to watch them brand calves during the spring roundup. Monty had been at the center of the activity all afternoon, a demon of energy, cutting a calf from the herd, lassoing it with unerring accuracy, throwing himself from the saddle to wrestle it to the ground until the red-hot iron had stamped the brand of ownership on its hip. Then he would vault back into the saddle to do it all over again. His was an effortless display of skill and courage, a performance that garnered the unqualified respect of every man present.
By nightfall, Iris was in love. For the next year she had followed him everywhere he went. Nothing Monty said or did penetrated the haze that surrounded her. She was beyond the power of words.
That's when her mother decided to send her to a boarding school in St. Louis. "My daughter is not going to marry a cowboy," Helena had announced, "not even one as rich as James Monroe Randolph."
As Iris limped toward the campsite, her boots rubbing against raw spots on the inside of her legs, she let herself remember the weeks of weeping that followed that decision. At the time she was convinced she was the most miserable girl on the face of the earth.
She had continued to feel that way until the headmaster's handsome nineteen-year-old son fell head-over-heels in love with her. Iris found that at fifteen it was impossible to pine too long over a lost love when a terribly ardent one was immediately at hand.
She could still remembered the excitement of stolen moments and clandestine meetings until the headmaster sent his son off to Princeton, a thousand safe miles away.
* * * * *
Iris jerked awake. The earth seemed to be shaking underneath her. It sounded as though every cow in the world was galloping past her wagon as fast as it could run.
A stampede!
Without stopping to remember she knew nothing about stampedes, Iris jumped out of bed and hurried into her clothes. Five minutes later she was in the saddle and galloping after the herd that had disappeared into the night.
Chapter Five
The stars faded as a faint glow showed above the horizon in the dark canopy of night. Moments later the first rays of sunlight, looking like tiny, thin shafts of fire, broke through the trees. They were back in camp, the men exhausted and the cattle milling restlessly. Holding the herd in a tight group kept everyone in the saddle. The cows were tired, but the slightest thing could cause them to stampede again. Two men at a time dismounted to grab a quick breakfast before hurrying back.
Iris didn't eat anything. She had no appetite.
"How many did we lose?" she asked her foreman.
"I don't think we lost any."
But Iris didn't feel reassured. The herd looked smaller. She couldn't say why, she certainly couldn't count that many cows and she didn't have Frank's experience in estimating. Maybe it was only the suggestion that some were lost.
"Count them."
"We can't take the time. Monty's right behind us. After the time we've lost rounding them up, he's going to be breathing down our necks. I'll count them when we cross the next river."
"Won't it be too late to come back for any we lost?"
"Naw. We're only a day away now. It won't be any problem for strays to catch up, if there are any."
Iris didn't know why she should continue to feel they had lost cows. The two hands she had asked earlier had told her the same thing.
The thought flashed into her mind that she wished she could talk to Monty. He would know at a glance if any cows were missing. He would also know if something was wrong. She could remember her father saying Monty could scent trouble before it happened. That's why he was always in the middle of it.
She rode alongside the her
d as they spread out from the bedding ground, her mind bombarded by feelings she couldn't understand, by fleeting thoughts she couldn't grasp. Maybe she was too tired to think straight. After all, she had been up most of the night after her first full day in the saddle. She hadn't been able to help, but she now knew when longhorns stampeded, no power on earth could stop them. They would run until they got too tired to run any more.
"You'd better use your wagon today," Frank said, riding up to her. "The herd is still pretty excitable."
Iris had no intention of traveling in her wagon even though her body ached abominably, she was dog-tired, and she longed for nothing so much as a hot bath and a soft bed. Something was wrong, and she meant to find out what it was. She also meant to learn enough about trailing a herd to be a help rather than an encumbrance. "Tell the driver to go on without me."
Frank scowled. Iris knew she was making things more difficult by deciding to ride as part of the crew, but Frank and the men would just have to get used to it.
"You'll get tired before noon," Frank warned. "You're not used to spending all day in the saddle"
"If it comes to that, I'm not used to spending all day in a wagon either," Iris answered, rather more sharply than she had intended, "but I mean to stay with the herd. If a calf can do it, so can I."
Frank clearly didn't like her answer, but he turned and rode forward, and Iris continued toward the back of the herd. The air was so thick with dust she slipped her bandanna over her nose. She could literally feel the grit in her eyes and on her skin, but she made up her mind to ignore it. It was part of the job, and she was determined to meet its demands.
She was relieved to see the herd gradually settle down as they moved north. Frank said they could have lost fifty to seventy-five pounds on that run. She might not know much about cows, but she did know a fat steer sold for more than a skinny one.
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