The Ellsworth Trail

by Ralph Compton

They were good cattle, all of them, and when he saw men riding herd, he waved to them from a distance. Some even waved back, but he wondered if they knew who he was, or if they were just acknowledging his wave in some kind of reflexive action. Some, he thought, were just glad to see another rider, for they were isolated and nervous, the way many men were before a big cattle drive. He wondered if they knew what they were in for, or if they just couldn’t see that far ahead. It was one thing to watch over a herd on a pasture, quite another to handle a large bunch that had no taste for leaving home grass and venturing into unknown territory.

  The burnished gold rim of the sun hung on the horizon for a long spell, it seemed, the clouds hovering like smeared paints on a palette. The land itself glowed with the sunset, and the cattle seemed content to graze and let the horseman pass by without so much as a bellow or snort.

  Ahead, well away from the fringes of the large herd gathered in that place, Jock saw three riders in a group, all staring to the northwest. So absorbed were they in something that they didn’t notice Jock as he rode up behind them. Two had rifles out of their scabbards as if they were tracking game.

  “Hello,” Jock called when he was within earshot.

  The riders all jerked around to look at him and Jock waved in a friendly manner just in case they were in a shooting mood.

  “Riding up,” Jock shouted. “Don’t shoot.” One of the men laughed. It was a nervous laugh.

  “Who are you?” one of the men asked.

  “Jock Kane.”

  “Kane? I’ve heard that name before.”

  “What’re you watching?” Jock asked. “Coyote?”

  Two of the men were Mexicans. The one who had been speaking was a cowhand named Amos Beeson. He introduced himself quickly, after sheathing his Sharps carbine. “This here is Manuel Rivera, and this is Gilberto Fuentes.”

  Jock shook hands with all three men. Fuentes reluctantly put away his rifle, an old Enfield with a weathered stock and army sights, which he collapsed before slipping the weapon into its scabbard.

  “No coyote, Mr. Kane,” Beeson said.

  “It was an Apache,” Rivera said. “I seen him sneaking around the herd.”

  “It was an Apache, all right,” Beeson said. “Up to no good. He saw us and snuck off. But he was marking the herd.”

  Jock’s scalp prickled as if a clutch of baby spiders had just been hatched in his hair and were crawling through the strands. There was no such thing as one Apache. If these men saw one, that Indian was part of a band. There were not supposed to be any Apaches in this part of Texas, but everyone knew there were some who would never give up, who would never leave Texas and live on a reservation, or take to farming or live in town.

  “Any word of Apaches hereabouts?” Jock asked.

  “Oh, they’s some,” Beeson said. “Ever’ so often they’ll rustle a few head, then disappear until they get hungry, or broke, again.”

  The two Mexicans nodded in agreement.

  “You weren’t going to shoot him, were you, Beeson?”

  “I thought about it.”

  The sun slipped down below the horizon, leaving just a small rim of shining gold, shimmering like some alchemist’s molten disk on the far edge of the world. Jock looked over the three men, assessing them, not by the clothes they wore—mostly homespun—but by the way they sat their horses and the look in their eyes. Their features stood out, lit by the last rays of sunlight, and they seemed etched of hard stuff; the faces of men born to the land.

  “I hope you didn’t think about it too much,” Jock said.

  “What do you mean?” Beeson said.

  “This the front of the herd?” Jock asked.

  “Yeah, we’re right at the head of it. The rest are back where you rode from.”

  “See any likely lead steers in this bunch?” Jock pulled out the makings and offered the sack around. The men shook their heads, still regarding him as an uninvited stranger, perhaps an enemy, suddenly intruding on them as if he had some stake in what they were about with the cattle.

  “Naw, I ain’t been lookin’,” Beeson said, meaning it was none of Jock’s business right then.

  “Well, this herd’s going to be moving north tomorrow,” Jock said. “If you had fired off that Sharps of yours, we might have to chase down a lead steer in the dark.”

  “Say, mister, who in hell are you?” Beeson asked point-blank.

  “I told you my name.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Didn’t you lose a whole herd up in Kansas a while back?”

  “I didn’t lose them,” Jock said. “They all got killed in a hailstorm.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I mean. What business you got here?”

  “Becker sent for me. He wants me to trail boss this herd up to Ellsworth.”

  “Huh?” Beeson looked at Kane as one would look at a bald-faced liar. “You, the trail boss?”

  One of the Mexicans swore under his breath, in Spanish. It was a mild curse and mentioned a cockroach and ancestry.

  Jock finished rolling his cigarette, licked it and stuck it in his mouth. He struck a match and lit the cigarette, then left it to dangle from his lips.

  “That’s right,” Jock said. “We’ll have a meeting tomorrow morning and I’ll lay it all out for you. If you’re signed on, that is.”

  “Oh, we’re signed on,” Beeson said. “But I got to question Mr. Becker’s sanity about hiring you on as trail boss after what happened to you up in Kansas.”

  “I’m sure a lot of people will question his sanity before this is over. And they might question mine, and yours, for that matter.”

  “I got to think real hard about this, mister.”

  “Well, you got all night, Beeson. Think as hard as you want. I’m going to look at those steers up at the head of the herd. You boys keep a sharp eye out in case that Apache shows up.”

  “What are we supposed to do if he does?” Beeson asked.

  “Well, don’t shoot him unless you want to chase cows all night. Rope him.”

  “Rope him?”

  Jock didn’t answer. He rode off with a smile breaking on his lips. He heard the Mexicans conversing in Spanish, and his grin widened.

  He understood every word in their language.

  They were saying that he was one crazy gringo and they hoped that Apaches took his scalp.

  Jock felt good about meeting those men, regardless of their feelings about him.

  It was a start.

  Chapter 7

  The sun slid below the horizon as Jock rode across the front of the herd. This was the leading edge, he knew, and somewhere in the bunch was his herd leader. There was still plenty of light to see by, and as he rode close to the cattle, he watched like a man at an auction. Some of the steers and cows continued grazing, paying him no mind. Others looked at him disconsolately, lifting their heads for a moment, then bending them back down as if he were of no consequence.

  After riding across in front of the cattle, Jock turned his horse and headed back the way he had come. He had seen some promising candidates and when he found them again, he turned his horse north. One cow left the herd and followed him. She was big and had fire in her eyes. He reined his horse to a stop abruptly and turned to face the cow that had followed him.

  She swung her head and pawed the ground, glaring at him. Challenging him. She bore scars on her face and neck, and her left shoulder was veined with an old wound that had turned black and hairless, as if she had been gouged deeply and a worm had replaced the flesh and become petrified. When she moved her leg, the dead worm undulated and corkscrewed as if it were somehow alive.

  “Well, hello there, gal,” Jock said, his voice low and his tone soothing.

  The cow lifted her head and mooed.

  Her hide was a patchwork of brindle and cream, her boss thick and heavy, her horns not as large as some of the steers, but formidable enough, he decided. He turned his horse and spurred it to trot away. The cow followed, believing, he thought, that it was responsibl
e for the horse’s retreat. Jock stopped and the cow stopped, too, and pawed the ground, lowing softly as if in warning.

  Good, Jock thought. She was territorial. She was protecting her place in the herd. There was a term for it that he had heard the Mexicans use when talking about bullfighting. Querencia. When a matador worked the bull— caping it, testing it, preparing it for the final moment, the kill—the bull would always find a place to make a last stand. This the Spanish called querencia, the place the bull preferred. Home ground. The word meant “preference,” he thought. This cow he faced could lead a large herd; she could make the others follow because she had that possessiveness of the ground she either stood or walked on without fear.

  “You’ll do, lady,” he said. “What should I call you? You, with that calico hide. How about Calico Sal? That good enough for you?”

  The cow eyed him, as if listening to the sound of his voice.

  He and the cow would never be friends, he knew, but he would pick her to lead the herd to Kansas.

  “Beeson,” Jock called. “Come on over, will you?”

  The Mexicans had gone back to tending the herd and Beeson was nearby. He rode over.

  “What you got?” Beeson asked.

  “See that cow there?” Jock pointed at Calico Sal.

  “Hard to miss.”

  “I think she’s going to be my lead cow tomorrow. Keep an eye on her, will you?”

  “She’s young and probably pregnant,” Beeson said.

  “That’s fine. I’m calling her Calico Sal.”

  “I never heard of naming a cow, less’n it was a milk cow. This’n ain’t that. She’s as wild as they come.”

  “You treat this cow as if she were a queen, Beeson, you hear me?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Mr. Becker ain’t said nothing to me about you being ramrod of this outfit. And, until I hear . . .”

  Jock cut him off.

  “Beeson, let’s get something straight. Either you take my word and follow my orders right now, or ride on back to the chuck wagon and draw your pay.”

  Beeson swallowed what might have been a lump in his throat, but might also have been air, or something imagined. Whatever it was, stuck there, and he struggled to get a gulp of oxygen past it and into his lungs. He looked intently at Jock as if trying to read what was in his eyes, as if doubting what his ears had just heard. It was a long moment of doubt, and an even longer moment of pondering a decision he must make.

  Jock waited him out, his gaze steady, hard as black agate.

  “I reckon I can do what you ask for a night, Kane. I can always see Mr. Becker tomorrow and see what he has to say about you.”

  “Fair enough,” Jock said. “I’m obliged.”

  As Jock rode off, Beeson watched him, a puzzled look on his face. He lifted his hat and scratched the back of his head as if that would settle some of his doubts about the stranger named Jock Kane.

  The shadows began to coalesce, and the clouds in the west turned to ashes as their colors faded. Jock rode along the edge of the herd, back toward the chuck wagon, gliding through shadows that had puddled up beneath his horse’s hooves, and then he and the horse were shadows and the dark came on. The stars began to wink on, one by one, like the distant lights of towns.

  Self-doubt began to inch into Jock’s thoughts. He had finished the easy part, picking out a lead cow for the long drive north. Tomorrow he would have to face the drovers and wranglers who would be tending the large herd. He would have to establish himself as their leader, and with his history he knew it would not be easy. By now, the word would be spreading that he was taking over as trail boss for Chad Becker. That would stick in the craws of some of the men. Others might take him at face value, or give him a chance to prove himself. Still others might give him the benefit of the doubt, knowing that the herd would move slowly and that they could always quit if he didn’t prove out.

  Jock knew what he had to do. As soon as he finished addressing the men, he’d have to put them to work, scatter them so that they couldn’t grumble or gripe before putting spur to horse, and begin driving the herd. If he could get through that first day, he might have a chance to win the doubters over. If he could make allies of them, their voices could drown out those of the protesters.

  Lou Quist would be his first problem, but he knew there would be others. He had bested Quist in the first encounter, or at least brought the fight to a draw. It wouldn’t always be so easy, he knew, and he hoped it didn’t reach the point of gunplay.

  As Jock approached the wagon, he encountered a lone man some distance from the campfire. He was smoking a pipe and gazing up at the stars.

  “Howdy,” Jock said, pulling on the reins to bring his horse to a stop. “Nice evening.”

  “Um, yeah. Nice enough.”

  “I’m Jock Kane.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “May I ask who you are?”

  “Name’s Dewey Ringler, for what it’s worth. I’m the one who held your gunbelt when you tangled with Lou Quist.”

  “That’s right. I hope to learn the names of all the drovers as quick as I can.”

  “I ain’t no drover. I’m a horse wrangler.”

  “Sorry. My mistake.”

  “Maybe that ain’t your only mistake, Kane.”

  “What do you mean, Ringler?”

  “Nothing. I was just thinking out loud.”

  “No harm in that, I reckon,” Jock said.

  “You might hear a lot of that, come morning.”

  “What, thinking out loud?”

  “Men speaking their minds,” Ringler said.

  “No harm in that either.”

  “Well, you’ll have a lot of eyes on you, Kane. You got a reputation.”

  “I imagine we all do, to some extent.”

  “Yep, that’s what a man is: his reputation.”

  “Men change. Reputations change.”

  Ringler snorted. “Not that much,” he said. “A leopard don’t change its spots.”

  “I’d like a chance, at least,” Jock said.

  “You’ll get your chance, Kane. These are all good boys. But they can measure a man, just the same.”

  “A chance is all I ask.” Jock drew in a breath, then touched a finger to his hat brim.

  “Well, good night, Ringler. Nice talking to you.”

  “Just watch your back, Kane. That’s my advice.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jock rode on to the edge of the light around the campfire. Men were sitting around it, but not close. They weren’t cold; they just wanted to be able to see each other in the darkness before they turned in or took their turns as nighthawks tending to the herd.

  Ringler’s words echoed in his mind.

  “Watch your back.”

  That was a fair warning, he supposed. The lines were drawn.

  Now it was up to him to get the herd to Ellsworth with as little trouble as possible.

  But Jock knew it would not be easy.

  He had enemies in camp. And, probably, some of them were sitting around the campfire at that very moment.

  Well, they would have to live with it, and so would he.

  Chapter 8

  Curt Torgerson had already begun to move his herd north. He knew that Chad Becker was due to head out at any time and he wanted to beat the man to Ellsworth. He had better than six thousand head bearing the Cross J brand, most of them protesting as they left their home range after dark. But the rancher knew he had to beat Becker to market at the railhead if he were to realize a profit.

  “Where in hell is Dub?” Torgerson asked, looking back through the darkness.

  “He’ll be along, boss,” Rafe Castle said. “You know he’s got to be mighty careful.”

  “I need to know what Becker’s up to, when he plans to move out.”

  Both men were riding drag, mainly because Torgerson was waiting for his man, Dub Morley, to report to him from inside the Becker camp. He was paying the man enough money to be his spy, and h
e hadn’t heard from him in two days.

  “Well, you know we got a head start on Becker. He’s got cattle strung out for miles. Far as we know, he still don’t have no trail boss.”

  Torgerson patted the withers of the palomino he rode, a horse whose color matched his own hair. He did this more to reassure himself than the horse, for he was worried. Dub knew they were moving out—had known it for a week. And Dub knew that he was to give a report on Becker’s progress before Torgerson’s herd headed north.

  He had long been envious of Becker’s spread, and when he heard that Chad was going to run such a large herd up to Ellsworth, it had galled him. He had vowed to beat Chad to the punch. Torgerson’s cows would have first crack at the grass along the trail, grow fat and leave Becker’s cattle to forage in ever-widening swaths, slowing him down, making him miss out on his big sale.

  Becker had beaten him in a land dispute some years back and Torgerson had never forgotten it. This drive was not only his way of getting revenge, but of making enough money to enlarge his own holdings and make him a richer man than Becker. Torgerson wanted the last laugh.

  “Listen,” Rafe said a few moments later, breaking into Torgerson’s thoughts. “I think someone’s coming up from the south.”

  Torgerson straightened up in the saddle and turned his head. He cupped a hand behind his right ear.

  “Yah, I hear him. Must be Dub.”

  “He’s wearing out leather.”

  The stars burned a diamond light through the haze of dust churned up by the cattle, and the close air was filled with the acrid ammonia smell of urine and the pungent aroma of cow shit plopped across the plain. Torgerson reined his horse to a halt and turned it so that he could see the rider when he emerged from the darkness.

  Dub rode up a few seconds later on a grullo. He saw Rafe and Curt, and slowed to a trot.

  “That you, Curt?” Dub called out.

  “Me’n Rafe, Dub. What you got for me?”

  “Ooowee. Boss, am I glad to see you. Didn’t know you was this far north.”

  “I told you we were moving out tonight.”

  “I got here quick as I could. Hard to sneak off. But I drew the first watch.”

  Dub was panting, and his horse was blowing from the fast ride. Rafe kept looking over his shoulder at the retreating herd, as if measuring the distance they’d have to ride to catch up to it.