The Ellsworth Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “I near dropped the hammer on your brother that time we were running those horses over the border.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. But I wondered if you’d get mad if I dropped old Jock so’s we could keep those horses, get us some cash money.”

  “So, that’s where you were. Dan and I thought you had got caught. Worried us sick until you showed up.”

  “I had old Jock plumb in my sights, Abel. Yeah, I could have dropped him so easy. But you wouldn’t have done nothing, right? Hell, we could have sold them horses to that army guy in Mexico.”

  That was before Abel had taken after Twyla. Now he wondered just what he would have done if Randy had killed Jock. He had wanted Twyla a lot even then, but he hadn’t gone after her. Not then.

  “Randy, if you had killed Jock that day, you wouldn’t be sitting on that horse jawing with me.”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me. I would have shot you dead if you had put a bullet in Jock.”

  “Well, D.F. wanted to do it, too. Maybe you did yourself. I don’t know.”

  “No, not then I didn’t.”

  “What about now, Abel? What if Jock was to ride up right now and I shot him out of the saddle—would you shoot me?”

  “Randy, sometimes you get on a man’s nerves. But that’s the same question Torgerson asked me. Pretty much the same question.”

  “What? He asked you if you’d kill your own brother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, there you are, Abel. Things sure change, huh? What did you tell Torgerson?”

  “None of your business, Randy.”

  “Bullshit. You told him you’d kill your own brother, didn’t you?”

  “Shut up, Randy. For the last damned time. Just shut up.”

  Randy kept quiet. But Abel knew he was studying on that last question of his and maybe someday Abel would have to answer him.

  Maybe, someday, he’d find out if he really could kill his own brother.

  Chapter 12

  Jock held his breath a lot for the first three days of the drive. The herd moved slowly over the plain, drifting like a great river; expanding, contracting, flowing over a course Jock had selected, grazing as it walked to the north, fifteen thousand head of multicolored longhorns.

  The young drovers worked well, Jock thought, letting the cattle find their way to the best grass, but keeping them all in a bunch despite the length and breadth of their numbers. He was pleased that there had been no stampedes, no mass exodus of cattle turning back to the home range. He thought that this might have been because he did not hurry the lead cow and made sure there was plenty of water along the route, and good bedding grounds at night.

  Jock wondered, however, how long his luck could hold with such a huge herd.

  They had made only five or six miles a day and Jock sensed that Chad was fretting at the slowness. But he couldn’t be too mindful about that. Chad had his schedule in mind, but the herd also had a schedule, and so did Jock. Very seldom, he knew, would they all mesh.

  Chad rode alongside him now as they ranged far ahead of the slow-moving herd. The ever-present cigarette dangled from Jock’s parched lips, the smoke scouring his eyes with almost sentient tendrils, burning them until they protected themselves with tears.

  “At this rate,” Chad said, “we’ll make Ellsworth next spring.”

  So, he was fretting, Jock thought.

  “Be a nice time of year in Kansas.”

  “It’s not funny, Jocko. We’ve got to make more miles a day or we’ll lose out on the sale.”

  Jock was looking ahead and not paying full attention to what Chad was saying. At times he wished Chad had stayed at home with his wife and daughter. He wasn’t exactly a nuisance yet, but he was getting there, getting under Jock’s skin like a chigger itch.

  “We’ll get there, Chad. In due time.”

  “Not at this speed, we won’t.”

  “Just think of how fat your cattle are getting,” Jock said. “That’s one thing about longhorns. They can graze on bare land and fatten up like sows.”

  Becker had good stock, Jock knew. Besides the mix of the Spanish retinto with American stock, there were mixes of the Mexican criollo, and even some red-and-white-peppered sabinas, mixed in with the brindles, blue roans, mulberries, Jersey creams, mouse-colored, lots of duns in various shades, speckled blues, ring-streaked, wild-eyed, rangy steers and cows, a bunch of red roans, some bays with brown points, browns with bay points, even some solid blacks, along with blacks that were splotched with red, brown or white. There were even some white longhorns, ghostly and lean, tall and big-horned, and many pale reds that looked as if their colors had faded in the wash. Chad had almost the entire history of longhorn cattle grown on both sides of the border, and maybe some breeds mixed in from Kentucky or Virginia so long ago that nobody knew where they had come from, or how.

  “I just need to get them up to Ellsworth before Torgerson runs his herd into the stock-yards,” Chad said, a bitter edge to his voice.

  “Well, from the looks of that ground up ahead, Torgerson has already passed this way, a few days ago, and left nothing but sprigs for this herd to feed on.”

  “What?” Chad stood up in his stirrups and stared ahead in the direction Jock was pointing. The ground was churned up from the passage of many cloven hooves and there was so little green to be seen that he had to strain to see any of it.

  “We’ll have to go west or east from here,” Jock said.

  “That bastard.”

  Jock laughed and ashes collapsed from the end of his cigarette, vanishing into the silk of the slight breeze wafting over the plain.

  Chad looked at the ground more closely as they reached the point where Torgerson had apparently started on the trail north. The ground showed the stamp of many hooves and the stench of manure was strong in his nostrils. The grass looked as if a horde of locusts had descended upon it. Pulled-up roots lay here and there, their tendrils tangled with daubs of dirt that had already dried and would soon turn to dust.

  “More water to the west,” Jock said. “More grass, too. And maybe we can get ahead of Torgerson. Flank him.”

  “You make it sound like a race, Jock.”

  “Well, ain’t it?” Jock cracked, a smile flickering on his lips.

  Chad let out a sigh as Jock turned his horse and set out toward the west. He turned and waved to the man riding point on the herd, Fred Naylor. Naylor put the spurs to his horse and rode toward Becker.

  “We’ll turn the herd here, Fred,” Chad said. “Head for the sunset.”

  “I can see why,” Naylor said, glancing at the ground all around them.

  “See you at supper,” Chad said, and took off after Jock. A few minutes before he caught up, Chad doubled over in the saddle, struck by a sudden spasm of pain. He pulled out the small bottle in his pocket and drank a swallow. Sweat beaded up on his forehead. His eyes squinted as he fought down the pain that felt like a knife being twisted in his stomach. He swore under his breath until the agony subsided, then put the bottle back in his pocket and wiped his face with the bandanna he wore around his neck. His eyes glazed over as a last twinge of pain shot through his innards like a hot lance.

  Jock turned around when Chad rode up beside him, and saw his friend’s ashen face.

  “What’s the matter, Chad? You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m all right,” Chad said tightly. “Just a cramp.”

  “Maybe you ought to take it easy. I can scout on my own.”

  Chad waved a hand in objection. “No, no, I’m all right. The bad part’s already passed.”

  “The bad part? What have you got, anyway? You look pretty peaked. Like somebody put a fist in your gut.”

  Chad shook his head and tried to smile. The spasms had passed, but he felt weak.

  “Ain’t you ever had a bellyache, Jock?”

  “Oh, yeah. That what you got?”

  “A little one. Something I ate, likely.”

 
Jock could see that Chad didn’t want to talk about it, but he knew there was more to Chad’s condition than a simple bellyache. He had seen him go off by himself after supper and come back to the camp with that same haggard look, that same pained expression on his face. Chad was hiding something, not only from him, but from himself. He put it in the back of his mind and vowed to pay closer attention to Chad’s spells.

  They rode on in silence for a time, following a line of hoof marks in the ground that showed where Torgerson’s herd had passed two or three days earlier. Five or six miles later, Jock saw the line end and rode onto untouched ground where the grass was more plentiful. The route would take them ten or twelve miles out of their way, but it could have been worse.

  What he saw next was more ominous, though, and he almost missed it.

  Jock didn’t say anything at first. He wanted to be sure. But a sidelong glance at the ground revealed a lone hoofprint of an unshod pony. Chad was looking up at the sky, and ahead toward the endless prairie stretching to the north. He hadn’t seen it, and he didn’t seem to notice when Jock turned his horse to ride in the direction of the horse track.

  Jock wondered if the pony had been following some predetermined route or whether the rider was a scout just roaming that part of the country. The track gradually turned from the north to the east and Jock followed it, noting that it was fresher than the cow tracks left by Torgerson’s herd.

  “Where you going, Jock?” Chad asked. “Seems to me like we’re doubling back.”

  “Following pony tracks.”

  “Pony tracks?”

  “Seems like we got company, maybe. Or Torgerson has. Only one set of tracks so far, but if he’s a scout, he’s looking for beefsteak on the hoof.”

  Jock pointed to the tracks. They were plain to see, even from atop a horse.

  Chad’s eyes widened and he swallowed a gob of saliva that had welled up in his mouth. “One Indian,” he said. “Doesn’t mean much.”

  “I’ll follow them on out, Chad. They look to be a couple of days old.”

  “That’s not getting my herd where it ought to be.”

  Jock shrugged. “You’re the boss, Chad. When I see pony tracks, I think of trouble.”

  “They’re old, you say, and they’re not anywhere near my herd. Let’s go on. Let Torgerson worry about it.”

  “Suit yourself,” Jock said, and turned his horse.

  He rode back to where he had picked up the pony tracks and continued westward, then turned north. They came to a creek and Jock rode along its banks one way and then the other.

  “We’ll bed the herd down here tonight,” Jock said. “That all right?”

  “Looks good. Plenty of grass and water. I’ll ride back and mark the trail.”

  “Good. I’ll see you this evening, Chad. Ride careful.”

  “I will,” Chad said.

  Jock watched him go and breathed a single sigh of relief. He knew he should have followed those tracks out, but it didn’t matter. When he had ridden up the creek, he had seen many more signs of unshod ponies. He hadn’t said anything to Chad. No need to worry him at this point.

  But he would set extra watches that night because he had found the place where the Indians—Apaches, most likely—had crossed the creek. And that was only after the bunch of them had been joined by the man who made those lone tracks behind Torgerson’s herd.

  The Apaches had crossed the creek and were waiting somewhere to the north. He was sure of that because the others had not ridden east after the Torgerson herd. For some reason, they would be waiting for the cattle of the X8, probably because they were moving so slowly.

  It was just a hunch, but Jock crossed over the creek and saw where the tracks led. They did not lead in the direction of Torgerson’s herd, but went due northwest.

  And that was just where he was going with this herd.

  Jock rolled a cigarette and lit it. Then he looked up at the sun and marked its place in the sky. His nerves were twanging like a guitar with a broken string.

  Chapter 13

  While waiting by the creek for the herd to come in, Jock began working out some tactics that he hoped would overcome any Apache trouble they might encounter. He thought he could find the right kind of men to perform the tasks he would assign; men he had been watching and assessing for the past few days. He was sure he could find those he needed.

  That night at bed-down, Jock began talking to some of the men as they came to the chuck wagon for chow.

  “I’m going to need a few men to act as scouts,” he said to each group in turn. “I need good trackers and good shots.”

  Jock asked each group who they thought was the best tracker in the outfit. The name that kept coming up was a man they called Horky.

  Horky, he learned, was Julio Horcasitas, a young, keen-eyed Mexican who had a reputation as a hunter and tracker of game.

  “Horky,” Jock said when the man came into camp for supper, “I hear you can read sign.”

  “Sign?”

  “Tracks. Animal tracks.”

  “Yes, my father taught me.”

  “What about Indians? Ever track any Indians?”

  “I have seen their moccasin tracks many times. I have seen the tracks of their ponies. I saw some today. Many tracks.”

  Jock smiled. “Are you a good shot?”

  “He’s a good shot,” one of the men said.

  Jock turned and saw Amos Beeson, one of the drovers, sitting down with a plate full of beans and beef, leaning against one of the wagon wheels.

  “That right?” Jock said.

  “Horky can pick a blackbird off a cattail at a hunnert yards,” Beeson said. “I seen him do it once’t.”

  Horky’s lips wrinkled in a shy grin.

  “That right, Horky?” Jock asked.

  “I think maybe so. If Amos say so.”

  “I do,” Beeson said.

  “How would you feel about leading some men as outriders to hunt for Apache sign?” Jock asked. He watched Horky closely for any sign of hesitation or fear.

  “If Mr. Becker say so, I will do this.”

  “I’m the boss on the trail here, Horky.”

  “If you want me to do this, I will do it.”

  “Good. Amos, you can ride with Horky, and I’ll get a couple more men to go with you.”

  “What do you want us to do if we run into Apaches, Kane? Get into a fight with them?” Beeson laced his words with sarcasm, but Jock thought that he probably would have reacted the same way.

  “If you find fresh tracks, or you actually see any Apaches,” Jock said, “just let me know. I don’t want you to risk your lives.”

  “Well, if I see an Apache,” Beeson said, “I’m going to throw down on the bastard. I run into them before, when I was a boy, and they’re pure meanness, I tell you true.”

  “You can settle that among yourselves,” Jock said. “If you’re jumped, attacked, you’ll have to defend yourselves. All right, Horky?”

  “All right,” Horky said.

  Jock wondered if Horky had ever killed a man, but he wasn’t going to ask. The young man seemed willing enough.

  “I’ll send you out tomorrow,” Jock said. “You won’t have to drive cattle until we find out what the Apaches have in mind. I saw their tracks, too,” he said to Horky.

  Before the night was over Jock had selected three teams of three men each to man his patrols. With Horky and Beeson, he put Earl Foster. Another team had Ed Purvis, Pablo Cornejo and Fred Naylor. The final group he sent out consisted of Lou Quist, Gilberto Fuentes and Dub Morley. He told them that he would expect them to check back in every two hours, and report to him what they had seen or not seen.

  “If you get in trouble and can’t send a man back to me, fire a rifle off three times, fast as you can,” he told them. “We’ll bring help.”

  He checked the men’s weapons the next morning. Each had a sidearm, and each had a rifle. Some had Sharps carbines. One or two had heavy Henry repeating rifles, but there w
as a rolling block and an Enfield among them.

  “Are you sure this is wise?” Chad asked, when the three patrols left at sunup.

  “Just a precaution, Chad.”

  “Puts us right short of drovers.”

  “We can manage,” Jock said.

  “How come you sent Quist out? Lou won’t do you no favors. And why put him with Dub Morley? Dub’s got about as much work in him as a strawless broom.”

  “Quist is carrying a big grudge,” Jock said. “Maybe some of it will wear off if he beats some brush. And he’s not afraid of anything or anyone. I figure if he gets into a fight, he’ll give a good account of himself. As for Dub, I got personal reasons for sending him out.”

  “Mind telling me what those reasons are, Jock?”

  “I’ve been watching him work cattle, Chad. I can’t prove it, but I think he’s been responsible for some of the tangles we’ve had on the drive. Every time the herd kinks up and starts to stray, I hear explanations from the other drovers that Dub is the one who pulled the cork out of the bottle. Either he’s just a poor drover with poor judgment, or he’s deliberately trying to slow this herd down.”

  “You could be right. I don’t know Dub all that well.”

  “Do you know if he ever worked for Torgerson?” Jock asked.

  Chad shook his head. “All I know is we signed him on late.”

  “Well, could be Torgerson sent him over to you just to be a thorn in your side.”

  “I don’t know, Jock. I just don’t know.”

  “Dub’s better off away from this herd. I just don’t want him anywhere near your cows for a while.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  The herd was moving and Jock ranged well ahead, alone, leaving Chad to manage the drovers, seeing that the herd stayed together. Some of the men were grumbling already, but he knew the cattle were settled down and moving well. The men would do the same. Idle hands were the devil’s workshop, he thought with a wry smile. Give the men something to do and they would forget they were short several hands. But he knew this would be a day when the hands would be long on sweat and short on tempers.

  Jock rolled a cigarette once he was well away from the leading edge of the herd, lit it and turned his head so that smoke didn’t sting his eyes. But he was looking at the ground, too, checking the horse tracks of the men he had sent out. He kept tracks in his mind and he had made sure to mark those of every scout he had chosen. He had always kept tracks in his mind; at least, ever since his father had first taught him how to track deer, javelina, quail and turkey. Tracks fascinated him as a child and he used to draw them in books to remember them. But there came a time when he no longer needed to draw them. He could remember tracks, each with its own distinctions, its own peculiarities.