by Mark Mitten
“Quarter sliver,” he said. “Horsethief moon.”
They rode at an easy walk. They were on point, guiding the lead cows and keeping them moving in the right direction.
“The night is as clear as a bell,” Casey began.
LG completed the old trail proverb.
“And cold as Hell.”
It was true enough — certainly at this elevation, at this time of year. Casey’s dog walked over to a dark seep near the willows. Casey and LG could hear him lapping water in the dark.
Behind them the lead steer followed along, keeping pace with their horses but clearly in no hurry. The rest of the herd was strung out in the trees. LG figured it might stretch as far back as a mile. But that’s what the other riders were for. If they were doing their jobs right, they were keeping the herd moving, and catching any strays that might wander off. Since he did not know the hired hands very well, he could only hope Til had picked a competent group. Of course, LG had joked about it at the branding fire — but he knew full well that Til was a good judge of character.
The gulch began to open up. The forest gave way to a large meadow. In the moonlight, they could see a fresh wagon track in the powdery snow. Two dark lines led straight across to the far side. That would be Emmanuel. He had gotten a good headstart after dinner.
“There it is,” LG said and pointed.
There was a small orange light twinkling up ahead.
“Mess wagon,” Casey said appreciatively. “Let’s see if Emmanuel has anything to chaw on.”
His trail horse, Boot Sock, a bay with tall white stockings up to his hocks, lunged into a sudden gallop. Hopper began barking at the same time and made straight for the trees. Casey held on tight, looking back as he rode. He knew what was happening.
“They’re running!” he yelled.
LG was right behind him, bringing Specter to a gallop and then an all-out run as the cattle came rushing at them. It was like a dam had broken somewhere. The two cowmen raced to stay with the lead steer. It was a big animal, racing blindly ahead.
LG rode up next to Casey and called over to him.
“Mill ‘em!”
Both riders pushed hard to keep their horses moving just ahead of the lead steer. They guided him across the big meadow they called Preacher’s Glen.
Specter’s gait was powerful. His black mane waved wildly with the speed. Despite the unwelcome surprise, LG could not help but smile a little. How many times had he been right there — riding a good horse with a loose herd.
Lamming his spurs in, LG pushed ahead of Casey and began turning the lead steer.
The ground was lit up by the moon, LG was glad he could see where he was going. The stampeding cattle began circling all the way around the meadow. Preacher’s Glen was soon filled with two thousand cattle, all running like the devil was on board.
Casey’s bay was not as fast as LG’s black, but Boot Sock held his own strong pace. Keeping to the outside, Casey followed behind LG. The cattle did not act like they were going to stop.
LG pointed the lead steer all the way around the meadow and joined up with the drags — the herd became an immense rotating circle. The sound of their pounding hoofs was as loud as thunder.
Edwin, Ira, Steve and Rufe all made it into Preacher’s Glen and spread out. They tried to contain the milling herd, to keep it turned in on itself. Lee and Davis, who had been riding drag, were the last to arrive.
After what seemed like forever, the herd finally slowed down to a walk. The riders kept the cattle together, riding outside the circle.
LG loped up to Edwin, whose hat had come off back in the trees somewhere.
“Lose anybody?” LG asked.
“We need to. Those McGonkin brothers…what damn suckers.”
Without his hat Edwin looked very boyish. His cheekbones were rosy red with the chill, which didn’t help his appearance any. LG thought he looked like Pinnochio. Edwin pushed his fingers through his mussy hair, suddenly self-conscious that his hat was gone.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “They roped a dead cow and thumped the ground with it.”
The cattle were bawling and lowing. It was loud, and LG wasn’t quite sure he heard right.
“A dead…they did what?”
Edwin hawked and spat on the ground.
“Antics about took us to the grave. No-account teat-licks.”
Chapter 23
Mining Camp
Continental Divide
The mountainside glowed and popped like the 4th of July.
Opening another pommel bag full of cartridges and shells, Roy Caldwell hustled across the slippery stones. Weaving through a clump of weather-beaten ponderosa, he crouched down behind several men in the darkness.
“Creek?” Roy whispered, holding out the bag to Red Creek Mincy.
Red Creek reached in and pulled out a handful of .45 caliber rounds. He examined one to see if it would work in his gun, which it did, so he filled up his coat pocket. Roy took a moment to admire Red Creek’s rifle. It was an old British Whitworth. Roy had never seen any gun quite like it. The rifle looked heavy, with a long barrel.
The rest of the posse all carried Winchesters. Most of them were identical guns, firing the same caliber. This was because Merle Hastings bought brand new Winchester Model 1886 repeating rifles for each of his ranch hands — right out of Ben Leavick’s mercantile store. Merle told everyone he wanted his men to have reliable firearms if they were going to run down Emerson Greer’s murderers. This was a consolation for Ben, since he had been closer friends with Emerson than most of the townsfolk — except maybe Griff. He gladly sold them to Merle, taking pride in the thought that one of the rifles from his store would be the one to put a bullet in Bill or the newspaperman who sprung him. It was clear now that the man was no columnist.
Almost every member of the posse was taking shots at the mining shack, except Roy Caldwell. Since he never considered himself an accurate shot, he took it upon himself to be the supply man. He left Red Creek and hurried over to Ben Leavick, who had his rifle barrel propped in the nook of a tree limb so he could shoot straight. He was not concerned with wasting ammunition and was burning through rounds as fast as he could chamber them.
From this angle, they could all see the rooftop rising above the ridge-line. Moonlight made the little mining cabin even easier to locate, but it was still the middle of the night. The one clear target they could all spot was the window. It was a distinct square of red light — and it gave them something to draw a bead on.
Taking the bag, Roy hunched over and made his way across the talus to another group of men, who were firing from behind some large boulders.
Ben Leavick fired twice more before his rifle was empty. Roy’s timing was perfect. Ben scooped out several handfuls and put the rounds in his pockets. At that moment, Griff moved out into the open and waved them on in the moonlight.
Everyone quit firing at the same time. After so many guns going off, the silence seemed unnatural. Griff strained to listen. He could hear the crackle of fire coming from the broken window and he could smell smoke. No one was shooting back.
Now was the time.
Stepping as quietly as possible, the Grand Lake posse slid out of the trees and boulders and moved carefully up the rocky slope. When he got closer, Griff could see fresh splinters and white pockmarks all over the front. They had done a good job of peppering the shack with bullets. If that didn’t send the right message, nothing else would. He hoped the gang was ready to surrender, but in his gut he knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
Griff kept his eye on the window. Everyone did. If anyone saw movement, he knew they were all going to shoot at the same time. But nothing happened. No one inside the cabin dared to look out that window. Griff knew they were smart enough to realize what would happen if they did. He was not surprised.
They got close enough to realize smoke was pouring out the window frame. It was thick in the air and several
men started coughing. Ben Leavick and Griff moved slowly towards the door and as they did, they both nearly tripped. It was the body of Will Wyllis — the man they shot.
“This one’s dead,” Griff whispered to Ben. He looked over his shoulder at Merle. “Ready?”
Merle’s cowboys spread out around him with their brand new Winchesters up. Merle himself stepped over Will and tried the door latch. Griff and Ben took positions on either side. Merle suddenly kicked the door open and began unloading his Colt. Griff and Ben did the same. Red Creek jammed his gun through the broken window and fired blindly around the room.
After a minute, they stopped shooting. Flames were raging everywhere in the cabin. Black smoke pitched out the open door and rolled up into the sky.
But there was no return gunfire.
Ben, Griff and Merle all knelt down to see beneath the smoke, which made their eyes sting. Griff saw the table in the middle of the room engulfed in flames. So was the wool rug beneath it. The twisted tree trunk the Mexicans had dragged inside lay in the middle of the room, absolutely roaring. The flames reached all the way to the roof. The heat it was throwing off was almost unbearable.
Griff scooted in far enough to see an unfortunate miner who, shot full of holes, had been dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Behind the bright flames, Griff noticed a big hole in the back wall. He knew immediately what happened. The gang tore a hole through the thin planks and then escaped into the night.
Earlier, Red Creek had snuck up and scouted around the cabin before any of the shooting started. He reported back to Griff what he saw. He also told him there was no back door — the only way in or out was through the front door. Griff chastised himself. If he had guessed they would bust through the building, he certainly would have sent men around back to catch them.
“Circle around!” Griff shouted. “Hustle!”
They all filed around the building, but no one was back there. Bill Ewing and his men were gone.
“By God, they won’t get far,” Griff announced.
“Gonna kill them for what they did!” Ben shouted, hoping to be heard.
The posse was geared up for a confrontation. Discovering the cabin was empty did not sit well. Merle’s boys started shooting into the darkness, hoping some of their shots found their mark. There was nothing to aim at that they could see, but they fired anyway.
“Gonna hang you bastards!” Merle yelled, angry at being outwitted.
Once again, the mountainside was lit up like fireworks. Even Griff worked through all the rounds in his gun, caught up in the moment. He did not stop until the hammer clicked several times.
Red Creek came around the cabin. In one hand, he held the head of Will Wyllis by the hair. In his other hand was the long gutting knife he always carried. Everyone stopped shooting at once.
“Oh, me,” Merle said quietly.
Red Creek just stood there in the flicker of the firelight. The cabin roof collapsed and a fireball plumed up into the air. Merle knew Red had been in the War back in the 60′s — a sharpshooter or something. Merle himself had been in the fighting, as well, as a foot soldier. He had seen a lot of blood during that time. Seeing Red with a head in his hand took him right back to Antietam. Merle lowered his rifle. His boys watched him and did the same.
At twelve thousand feet, there were so many stars in the sky it was hard to distinguish the constellations. The wind gusted, whistling freely along the ridge. It made the fire swell and roar like a train. By morning, Griff knew the cabin would be a pile of charred cinders. For now though, it was a heat source. The posse from Grand Lake silently gathered around it.
Red Creek held up the trophy in the orange glow.
“Got a pickle jar in the wagon,” Roy Caldwell told him.
Chapter 24
Spring Gulch
Preacher’s Glen
The blackened coffee pot sat in the coals at the fire’s edge, steam puffing out. The fire was warm and all the boys of the B-Cross were grouped around it. Just above the flames was the potrack, but nothing hung from it at this late hour.
Hopper was lying quietly at Casey’s feet. Without warning, he rolled onto his side, gave off a low groan and sighed profoundly.
“Me, too,” Casey told him, and tugged lightly at his furry tail. Hopper opened an eye but otherwise did not move.
Rufe was the only one who wasn’t there — he had been shamed into riding first watch. LG chewed on a stick. He squinted into the fire and hadn’t said a word since the younger McGonkin left to saddle his night horse. After they got the cows settled down, they all pieced together what had happened to spook the herd. No one was pleased with the McGonkin brothers at the moment.
Emmanuel stood near the wagon with a flour sack tied around his waist. It was splotchy with congealed blood. So were his hands and forearms. Emmanuel had just finished gutting an antelope, which Gyp had shot earlier.
“Just dried apples an’ mountain berries tonight,” the cook said without apology. “Gonna have pronghorn tomorrow — be pleasin’ for something different.”
No one spoke.
“When ya want ‘em, bedrolls in the wagon.”
“Think we’re all just waiting on that coffee,” LG muttered. “Know I am.”
Edwin got up slowly and yawned. He wandered over to the chuckwagon. He glanced back at the fire to make sure no one was watching him.
“Lost my damn hat,” Edwin said to Emmanuel. “Got an extry?”
Shaking his head, Emmanuel reached into the back. He got a hold of an empty flour sack, like the one around his waist. He shook it out a couple times and handed it to Edwin.
“Tie this to ya head.”
Edwin looked at him in disbelief.
“Pullin’ my teat?” he asked in a half-whisper.
“Oh, no, done this muhse’f once out on the trail,” Emmanuel said. “Head’ll stay warmish.”
The fire cracked and popped. The men were all sitting on their saddle blankets because the ground was damp and cold. Since LG had finally broken the silence, Davis decided it was safe enough to try his hand at conversation.
“Casey…what happened to your pup?”
Stirring, Casey inhaled slowly and sat up straight.
“Stepped on. He was just young. Didn’t know which end of a horse gets up first.”
Davis tossed a piece of dried apple toward the big dog. It landed on the ground right in front of his nose. He ate it without even lifting his head.
“Aw that’s too bad,” Davis said. “First saw him, thought he was part lobo…maybe ki-yote.”
“Maybe he is, I don’t rightly know.”
A soft breeze blew up and whipped the flames around for a minute. Then the night grew calm again. Turning slowly toward Steve McGonkin, LG aimed a hard look in his direction.
“Next watch starts at four,” he said.
Leaning close LG added, “Need me to wake you?”
The older McGonkin brother leaned away, careful to avoid LG’s eyes. He knew the man was mad at him. It had been Rufe’s fool idea to toy with that dead beeve. Of course, Steve went along with it, so what could he say? Sometimes that brother of his was dumber than a post. If Rufe ever tried to fool with dead beeves again, Steve was bound and determined not to join in.
“No sir,” Steve replied quietly. “No need.”
“Well, don’t spook the herd when you crawl outta your hot roll.”
“No sir, I won’t.”
“You bet you won’t. Cut a pair of chaps outta your hide.”
Steve got to his feet.
“Best get my bedding.”
Shaking his head in disgust, LG stared holes in Steve’s back as the man made his way to the wagon. The antelope skin Emmanuel had been working on was stretched across one of the wheels. It still needed to be scraped. Steve needed to reach between the water barrel and that wagon wheel to get his bedroll. He tried not to get blood on his shirt. His bedding was buried, but he managed to dig it out and then went off into the aspens. Normally,
he liked to sleep by the fire. Not tonight. He wished he had some hot coffee in him before he turned in, but glancing back at LG he knew it was better not to wait around for it.
Emmanuel walked over to the ring of cowboys. He suspected the water would be hot enough to get some coffee going. The lid on the pot was flopping. One thing a good cook never did was boil the coffee. Davis told him that frequently, but Emmanuel always forgot to check the water until he heard the lid flopping — a sure sign the water was boiling.
Gyp sat on a stump warming his hands. He had taken the remuda ahead of the herd, following the chuck wagon through Spring Gulch all the way into the glen. As Emmanuel set up camp, Gyp set up a rope corral. The rope was half an inch thick, and he always stretched it taut four feet above the ground. That was the only thing holding the horses in, but it always worked. When the stampeding cattle came rushing into the meadow, Gyp’s first thought was that the horses would bust right out, and then he would have a chore on his hands. But they did not bust out, which was a relief.
Emmanuel picked off the lid and poured fresh ground coffee into the boiling water. Cracking an egg, Emmanuel dropped it right in, shell and all, and put the lid back on. Davis just shook his head.
The cook yawned and straightened up slowly. He was ready for the summer. Emmanuel hated the winter. Especially up in the mountains, the cold temperatures always hung on longer than down on the plains. He hoped that last snowstorm was it, and warmer weather was on its way.
“Aw, crud!”
It was Steve’s voice, out in the aspen grove. Emmanuel was the only one who heard, but he knew what happened. He had gutted the antelope back there, and the guts were piled between two trees. Steve probably walked right through the goo. No flies were out, but when the sun came up there would be a lot of them buzzing around. If there had been flies right then, perhaps Steve would have had some kind of warning. Since Emmanuel knew they would all be on trail again in just a few hours, he didn’t waste time taking the guts further out.
No one else was in a talking mood, so Casey chatted with Davis.
