Nothing could stop the onward march of the long-horns. Cholera, Spanish fever, swollen rivers and other difficulties of the trail, loss of riders and loss of cows, rifles in the hands of angry grangers, prohibitory laws—all made the attempt, but the horns continued to clash, the wild eyes to roll, the shaggy backs heave, with the north and the towns of the north ever in view. The territories were filling up with land seekers who needed untold thousands of cattle to stock their ranges. The cities and the towns demanded cheap meat. Boom towns like Virginia City, Gold Hill and Deadwood were willing to pay any price for it. The government needed millions of pounds for the Indians herded onto the reservations and no longer able to supply their needs from the buffalo.
All these provided the necessary incentive for the great drives that began on the watersheds of the Brazos, the Colorado, the far-off Nueces and the mysterious Pecos and thundered north. There was a golden harvest to be reaped. The cattle owners, large and small, were out to get their share. Nothing should stop them. Nothing could stop them. The great barons of the open range lived like feudal lords on this golden flood. Small owners and individual cowboys sensed opportunity. The herds grew, the drivers became larger, more frequent. The bawling of worried cows, the blatting of frightened calfs, the rumblings of disgruntled steers rose with the cursing, the song, the crack of six-shooters and the shouting of orders in a pandemonium that disturbed the silence of nature from the Gulf to Kansas, and beyond.
It was the wild, unordered, triumphant song of marching empire. Born of economic necessity plus the challenge of the wilderness, the vast migration brought a dozen great states into being, made of Chicago the granary of the world and left an impress that would be plain half a century later, and more. The march of the Texas long-horns! The saga of the individualist! The very spirit of America laughing at the wilderness, setting to naught the problems of distance and terrain, accelerating the wheels of progress, creating a legend, a literature, turning dreams into realities and merging the impossible with the possible in a common pattern of fact.
Twenty to twenty-five miles a day were covered in the early days of a drive, so that the cows were tired when night came and less liable to stampede. Later this was cut down to an average of more like ten. But with Dodge City still some seventy miles distant, Austin Brant stepped up the speed of the drive until the cows were travelling nearly as fast as they did when started north across the Texas Panhandle.
“It’s gettin’ close to our deadline date,” Webb had told him when they left the crossing. “If things go along smooth, we’re okay, but if somethin’ should happen to delay us, the loop will be drawn mighty tight.”
So Brant took no chances and pushed the herd along at top speed.
“Looks like Norman Kane has a deadline to meet, too,” he observed to Webb on the morning of the second day from Doran’s Crossing. “He’s keeping ahead of us right along.”
“Uh-huh, it does look that way,” Webb agreed. “I’ve a notion that young feller is a mighty smart cowman, Austin, and a sort of cold proposition along with it.”
“I figure you’re right on both counts,” Brant nodded. “He’s the sort of jigger who makes a first class general when a war busts loose.”
“Uh-huh, and when things bust loose wrong, the sort that makes a fust class—anything,” old John predicted. “I wouldn’t want to get tangled up with him. I’ve a hunch he would take any short cut that worked well for him.”
“Mebbe,” Brant temporized, “but I’ve a notion he’s got too cool a head to go off half-cocked.”
Old John grunted, but made no further comment.
Scouting far in advance, Brant looked back at the moving mass of cattle, spread out like a great arrowhead, the point to the front, the base more than a mile wide. It was a big herd, even for those days, nearly three thousand head. Brant had twenty cowhands riding the herd, some six or seven more than the usual number for a herd that size. He was taking no chances.
There had been trouble a-plenty on the trail to Dodge City. The great herds afforded fat pickings for ruthless and daring bands that would swoop down on the bedded cattle at night, stampede them and cut out a sizeable bunch that they would run into some hidden canyon or gorge. The wrathful cowboys would be too busy for some time getting their scattered charges together to attempt pursuit, and even after the cows were rounded up and quieted once more, they did not dare leave them unguarded. Knowing this, Brant had made a plan which he hoped would foil any attempt on the Running W herd. For it he needed extra men. So far, except for the mishap at the Cimarron crossing, the drive had been singularly uneventful.
“Too darn easy,” Brant told himself. “I got a feeling something is liable to bust loose. Sure wish we were at Dodge City.”
He rode to the crest of a rise and glanced back. Everything looked to be in perfect order. The herd was rolling forward at a good pace. The hands were in their proper places. Near the head of the lumbering column and a little to each side were the point or lead men. This was the position of greatest responsibility, for it was they who must determine the exact direction taken. When it was desirable to veer the herd, the point man on one side would ride in toward the cattle, while his partner on the other side would edge away. The cows would swerve away from the approaching horse man and toward the one that was moving away from them.
About a third of the way back were the swing riders, where the herd would begin to bend in case of a change of course. Another third back rode the flank riders. It was their duty to assist the swing riders in preventing the cows from wandering sidewise, and to drive off any stray cattle from other outfits joining up with the marching herd.
Last of all, cursing the dust and the poky and obstinate critters that always drift to the rear, came the drag or tail riders. This is the most disagreeable chore of the trail, but on this particular drive, Brant had chosen his drag men with the utmost care, for he was taking no chances on a sudden foray on a lagging portion of the herd. Cole Dawson, alert, vigilant, and capable had the drag riders and the rear of the herd under his personal supervision. Some distance back was the remuda of spare horses.
Following up the remuda came the two lumbering chuck wagons, the drivers sitting with Winchester rifles ready to hand. As the day drew to a close, the wagons would speed up and pass around the herd, so that the cooks could get busy at the camping site chosen by the Trail Boss and have supper ready by the time the herd was bedded down for the night.
A mile or so west of the trail was a range of low hills, their slopes covered with dense growth. The growth straggled out onto the prairie in a shadowy tangle. Suddenly Brant’s eyes caught a gleam amid the bristle, as of reflected sunlight on shifted metal. A moment later he saw it again. His brows drew together and he tensed in his hull. He sent Smoke down the sag at a slow pace. Apparently he was facing to the front, but his slanted eyes studied the dark tangle at the base of the hills. A third time he sighted the tell-tale gleam, and once, where the growth thinned somewhat, he was sure he sensed movement amid the chaparral.
“There’s a hellion over there riding herd on us, sure as shooting,” he growled. “I don’t like the looks of this.”
As evening drew near, Brant grew anxious about a bedding-down site for the herd. They were passing over an exceedingly dry stretch of prairie. Not since morning had he encountered a stream or a spring. He knew that by now the cows must be badly in need of water. From time to time he could hear the querulous bleating of the tired and thirsty critters as they slogged wearily across the prairie.
Gradually the ground became more broken, with long rises, isolated clumps of rocks and occasional beetling cliffs. The sun was low in the overcast sky when Brant noticed, a few miles ahead, a silvery gleam winding out of the northwest. He drew a deep breath of relief. It was a small stream cutting across the route the cattle followed. A little later and Smoke had his nose buried in the cool water.
Brant traced the course of the stream with his eyes. He saw that it flowed from the dar
k mouth of a narrow canyon that slashed the hills about a mile to the north. He eyed the opening with interest. So far as he could see, it was the only break in the wall of the hills anywhere near. He glanced swiftly to the west, and again he thought he sighted movement in the fringe of brush. His lips set in a hard line. He turned his attention to the immediate terrain.
Across the stream was a stretch of level grass land that rolled to the foot of a wide cliff that based a fairly high rise. A few hundred yards from the foot of the cliff a gentle slope began. It terminated in a bench perhaps a score of yards wide. Then came a slight slope to a second and narrower bench that shouldered against the upward loom of the cliff. Brant nodded with satisfaction, turned in his saddle and again studied the canyon mouth. The second bench curved around the stand of cliffs and sloped downward to the prairie floor. From there on was open prairie to the canyon mouth, with the stream cutting across it in a series of curves.
Glancing back, Brant saw the chuck wagons had forged ahead and were rolling toward him at no great distance to the rear. He waved them to come on and set about deciding the best place for the camp.
Bedding down a herd was no snide chore. The critters must not be crowded too closely. Neither should they be scattered over too much ground. Brant knew that, well grazed and watered, the herd would lie quietly about half the night. Then, just as if a signal had been given by some leader, the cows would get on their feet, stretch, yawn, amble about a step or two. After a few grunts and rumbles, they would lie down again, generally on the other side. Just sort of like a cowpoke sitting up in his blankets to roll and smoke a cigarette then turning over and snuggling back to rest.
The cows would be allowed to drift from the bed ground as soon as day dawned. The cocktail riders, the last of the night guard shift, would move them in the right direction before the day herders took over and the weary night men hustled to surround their morning chuck.
“Unhitch up on that first bench and make camp there,” Brant told the chuck wagon drivers. “Good place to cook and eat.”
“Good for sleepin’, too,” observed one of the drivers. “Nice soft grass and enough of a cliff overhang to cut off the wind and most of the rain if it happens to cut loose durin’ the night. Better shelter up on that second bench, but the ground under the cliff looks almighty hard and rocky.”
Brant nodded, but did not comment.
Soon the herd came bawl-bellerin’ up to the stream. The cows drank prodigiously, then began grazing on the rich grass. Brant sat his horse and watched them for some minutes. Occasionally, his gaze, grown contemplative, would shift across the prairie toward the dark canyon mouth from which the stream rolled like a tarnished silver ribbon. He glanced at the darkening sky, shook his head and rode up to the bench where the cooks were busy with their skillets and ovens.
After supper was over and the night guards posted, Brant gave some orders that caused his men to stare.
“Leave your bedrolls down here by the fire,” he told them. “Each of you take a couple of blankets and bed down on that second bench, close to the cliff. Everybody sleeps in his clothes tonight— everything, including boots and guns. The horses are to be tied up there, too, under full rig.” He called six men by name.
“You jiggers bed down over here with me,” he directed. “All right, you better hit the hay. May not get much shuteye to night, can’t tell.”
The hands grumbled and swore, but did as directed. On a drive the word of the Trail Boss is law. Not even the owner questions his orders. All responsibility is his, and in consequence, all authority.
John Webb drew Brant aside. “You figger there might be trouble to night, Austin?” he asked.
“Could be,” Brant replied.
“You figger somebody might make a try for our cows?”
“Could be,” Brant repeated. “I’m playing a hunch, that’s all. If it’s a fool hunch, there isn’t much damage done, aside from considerable cussin’, but if it turns out to be a straight one, well, you might be glad I sort of took precautions.”
“Your chore,” grunted old John, with a shrug of his big shoulders.
“So I figure,” Brant returned. “Now I’m going to ride down for a gab with the night hawks.”
“Be a fine night for any hellions with notions,” Webb growled. “So dark you can’t see twenty feet, and the wind kickin’ up enough row to drown any noise, and enough rain mist to deaden sounds, too.”
Brant rode down to the level prairie, circled the herd and talked to each night hawk in turn.
“Keep back in the shadow,” he told them. “There’s no thunder or lightning, and no signs of any, and just enough wind and rain to keep the critters bunched for warmth. They should be plumb quiet all night, unless something sets them off. If something does, don’t ride in to the herd. Ride away from it, and ride out a good piece, pull up and be all set to start ’em millin’ if they scatter. Don’t forget what I told you, now, or you’re liable to pay heavy for the mistake.”
He rode back to the bench, leaving the night guards considerably mystified but very much on the alert.
There was no need to tether Smoke, so Brant merely dropped the split bridle to the ground and left the big moro to his own devices, knowing that he would not stray. He assured himself that all the hands were sleeping on the upper bench, then walked to the edge of the cliff wall, settled himself in a comfortable position and waited.
Slowly the hours passed, and nothing happened. Brant’s eyes grew heavy from constant staring into the dark. Despite the shelter afforded by the cliff overhang, his clothes became sodden with the rain mist that drifted in upon him. The sleeping cowboys, farther back, were better protected and the wind that chilled Brant to the bone did not reach them.
The silence persisted, broken only by the thin wail of the wind and the occasional impatient stamp of a horse. Brant heard the grunting and shifting as the cows stood up for the midnight “stretch,” then the contented groaning and gurgling as they settled back to rest once more.
Another hour passed, with nothing happening, and then with the suddenness of a thunderclap the silence burst into horrific sound. Yells split the air, swung slickers snapped and crackled. There was a crashing of gunshots. Brant heard bullets thud into the blanket rolls laid in rows by the dying fire on the lower bench.
The cattle came to their feet with terrified bawls. Brant leaped forward a pace and both his guns streamed fire as he fired at the flashes on the prairie below. The exultant whoops of the raiders changed to yelps of alarm. The Running W hands came tumbling from their blankets, sized up the situation instantly and the boom of their guns added to the pandemonium. For moments the night was a blazing, roaring, bellowing hell. Then, with a low thunder of hoofs, the herd stampeded madly to the south. After them crashed the yelling raiders, lead whining through the darkness in their wake.
“After those cows! Round ’em up and start ’em millin’!” Brant shouted to the cursing cowboys. He turned to his own selected hands who were grouped close around him. “All right, fork your cayuses,” he told them. “We’ll give those wide-loopin’ gents a mite of a surprise.”
Around the cliff wall they bulged and up the long slope, speeding in the wake of Smoke who raced a length in the lead. They reached the crest of the rise, topped it and skalleyhooted down the far sag. For a mile Brant headed due north, then he veered to the west, his men swerving after him. Straight ahead the ominous loom of the hills showed dimly in the faint sheen of starlight that filtered through the cloud rack. As they drew nearer, a blacker segment made itself evident. It was the mouth of the canyon Brant had observed the evening before. He led his men into its gloom and halted.
“All right,” he directed, “lead the horses over to one side and leave them in the brush. Those hellions should show any minute now. They’ll have to circle back from the south with the bunch they cut out, but they won’t be far behind us, or I’m making a big mistake. Get set. Let the cows go into the gulch. The sidewinders will be back to
the rear, shoving them along. When they’re close enough to line sights on, let ’em have it.”
Tensely the cowboys waited, guns out and ready. For some minutes nothing happened. Then a low mutter shattered the silence. It grew to a rumble of many hoofs punctuated by the bleating of frightened steers. A dark mass came rolling across the prairie. Shouts sounded, and the sharper click of horses’ irons. Jostling and clashing, the rustled cows poured into the blackness of the gorge. Behind loomed some six or seven horsemen.
“Let ’em have it!” roared Brant.
Instantly the cowboys’ guns spouted fire. The canyon walls rocked to the thunder of the explosions. A terrified yell sounded. It was followed by the thud of a falling body, and another. There was a scream of pain, a gurgling cough, a wild clashing of bridle irons, then the frantic beat of hoofs fading into the distance. The Running W hands sent lead whining after the fleeing raiders until the uproar died away.
Brant lowered his smoking Colt. “We got a couple of ’em,” he exulted. “I heard ’em hit the ground. Let’s have a look-see. Careful, now, they’re fangin’ sidewinders and deadly as a back-busted rattler. Don’t take a chance of leaning against a passing slug. Take it easy.”
Cautiously, guns ready, the cowboys crept out of the shadows. On the ground at the mouth of the canyon lay what looked like two bundles of old clothes. Neither moved as the punchers approached. Brant took a chance and scratched a match. The tiny flare of light showed the two owl-hoots satisfactorily dead.
“This one is shot to pieces,” he said, bending over the dead man. “The other’s drilled plumb center, too. Say, this hellion looks familiar to me.”
“Boss,” exclaimed one of the hands, “it’s that jigger you had the wring with back at the Dead-fall, the feller Phil Doran called Porter.”
Longhorn Empire Page 3
