“How do you know all this, Horky?” Quist asked.
Horky smiled. “I am part Apache, and my grandfather told me many stories.”
“I thought you were a Mexican.”
“That is what I am. And a Mexican is part Spanish and part Indian. I am part Apache.”
“Be damned,” Quist said.
Horky smiled again.
“So, how do we stop them?” Quist asked. “How do we win a fight with them?”
“We can become Apaches for a little while,” Horky said.
“Huh? How do we do that?”
“They will leave their horses down in the draw and walk up to the herd,” Horky said.
“They will pick out the cattle they want and herd them back down into the draw. Others will wait at the edge to guard those that steal and they will have no horses with them either. We must leave our horses, cover ourselves with dirt and grass, and crawl toward the place where the Apaches come out to steal the cattle.”
“That don’t sound like something a white man can do, Horky.”
“We can do it,” Beeson said. “I’ve seen Apaches rise up out of the ground where they’ve been lying for hours. You can’t tell them from the grass.”
“He is right,” Horky said.
“I don’t like it none, but if that’s the only way, let’s get to it.”
And so they did. Nine men hobbled their horses well out of sight of the draw. Then they walked back within view of it, sat down and began smearing their faces and hands with dirt. Horky showed them how to pull grass and put it in their hat bands and in back of their necks. Then they lay on their bellies, rifles cocked, and started to crawl, following Horky. It was slow going but, finally, Horky stopped. He turned and motioned for the men to spread out and then lie still. It was then that the other scouts could hear the faint sounds of men down in the draw. Men and ponies, walking around, shuffling. They could smell the smoke from their pipes. They all heard some sounds they could not identify.
“What’s that noise down there?” Beeson asked.
“They’re whittling,” Horky said.
“Whittling?”
“Sharpening sticks. They make the cattle prods to use to make the cows move.”
As the herd passed by, close to the draw, Apaches began to emerge, slithering over the edge like lizards. The Indians looked all around and the scouts remained very still as Horky had told them they must do.
Each of the braves carried freshly sharpened sticks and they slid through the grass like stalking cats, making no sound. The Indians were barely visible, but the scouts could track them by their movements. Then, as if on some silent signal, the Apaches stood up well inside the body of the herd.
They prodded cows and moved them against the stream and out into the open. The cattle began bawling and lowing.
“When?” Quist whispered to Horky.
“Now,” Horky said.
The scouts all got to their feet, but remained crouched.
“Charge them,” Quist ordered, taking command. “Shoot them down, then hightail it for the draw and kill those Apaches down there.”
Horky wanted to move closer before attacking, but the decision was taken out of his hands. On the heels of Quist’s order, the scouts rose up as one man and started running toward the marauding Apaches. They fired their rifles on the run and, following Horky’s lead, they zigzagged, staying hunched over. The Apaches tried to scatter, but the expert riflemen brought them down. The stolen cattle reversed course and ran back into the herd. The herd flared away from the gunfire and began to stampede. At first, only a few cattle were running full tilt, but then the contagion caught and soon the entire eastern wall of the herd was in full flight, adding to the confusion.
Quist and the others ran to the edge of the draw and began picking out targets. The Apaches were mounting up and many were shot before they could jump on their ponies’ backs. Others returned fire and got mounted. These were shot down like the proverbial fish in a barrel. The scouts were shouting to each other.
“Got one,” Beeson said.
“Me, too,” another man yelled.
The bloodlust was hot in their veins as the scouts slaughtered the hapless Apaches caught in the open at the bottom of the draw. Not a single one escaped, much to Quist’s satisfaction.
“Lou, we done started a stampede,” Beeson said, turning around from the rim of the draw.
“Damn,” Quist said. “We’ve got to turn that herd.”
He sounded disappointed and Horky looked at him.
“Well,” Quist said, “I was thinking of taking me a few scalps to show Mr. Becker and Kane.”
Horky turned away in disgust and began trotting back to retrieve his horse. Dead Apaches lay sprawled in the dirt, their blood soaking into the earth. Horky was sick to his stomach and he had to fight against stopping to heave up his guts.
The horses were in a blind panic when Horky, Quist, Beeson and the others ran up to retrieve them. Their high-pitched whinnies were cries of alarm that spread to the cattle, causing more of the herd to join the wild stampede. Horky fought with the hobbles and then had to hold onto the reins with tremendous effort to keep his horse from bolting. The others had much the same problem, and the men yelled and fought to bring their horses under control so that they could climb back up into their saddles.
Dust arose from the thundering herd as it surged northward, and by the time Horky did mount his horse, he could barely see the other men. He heard Quist cursing at his horse, then saw him put his boot in the left stirrup and haul himself up into the saddle. He rode over to him.
“It will be hard to turn this herd from where we are, Lou. Do you not agree?”
“Yeah, damned hard. You’re on your own, Horky. I’m going to ride ahead and see if there’s anything I can do. I have to outrun the herd if I can.”
“I will go with you.”
“Suit yourself. This is going to be hard as hell on the horses.”
Jock was way ahead of the herd when he heard the thunder. The sound almost stopped his heart, for he knew what it was. The cattle had been docile for days, inured to the trail as if it were a normal pursuit for bovine creatures. They were stopped at eleven every morning while the cowhands came to the chuck wagon for noon grub. In the afternoons they ate up miles at a good pace, knowing there would be water and rest at the end of the day. At night, they’d rise up around midnight and then lie back down again, and might do that every hour. But they would stay put because the nighthawks gave them comfort with their low, throaty voices and their pleasant, soothing songs.
But now Jock knew he had a wild herd on his hands. He glanced over at Ringler, whose horse was also halted, its ears stiff and turning in every direction, its muscles quivering under its sleek hide.
“Jock,” Ringler said, without finishing his sentence.
“We’ve got to turn that herd,” Jock said. “We’ll start with Calico Sal.”
Both men turned their horses south and rode toward the sound of the rumbling. Before they even reached the herd, they could see the cloud of dust beginning to form like a gauzy brown-orange cloud. Jock knew then that the stampede didn’t just involve a few hundred head, but perhaps the entire herd. At least, he thought, most of them were running in the right direction.
There was no sign of Calico Sal. By then, Jock knew, she was no longer the single leader. All of the cattle in the front of the herd served in that capacity. In fact, most of them had held their positions for all of the drive. But Sal and the other leaders had been swallowed up by the rampaging cattle behind them and were just more sets of horns slicing through the air.
Jock swore. Cattle were running everywhere, off to the left and to the right, and gaining momentum as if their rumps were on fire and the devil himself was chasing them with a pitchfork.
Jock and Dewey took off their hats and waded into the leaders nearest them, waving their Stetsons and yelling at the top of their voices.
“Whoa up.”
“Hey, hey,” they yelled, trying to turn the leaders and start the front part of the herd to milling.
The cattle ignored them and broke course to stream on either side of them.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Jock yelled at Dewey.
“Yeah, we’re getting swallered up,” Ringler said.
They were in danger now, Jock knew. Their horses were being jostled by huge bodies and raked by sharp horns. Both men fought free, slapping their hats against their horses’ flanks and spurring them to outrun the maddened flight of cattle gone berserk.
Somewhere beyond the drag riders, Abel saw the dust cloud and heard the sound of bawling cattle. The ground seemed to shudder beneath his horse’s feet as if he were riding through an earthquake. He slowed his horse and then came to a stop.
“A damned stampede,” he muttered, and felt a swirling in his suddenly empty stomach.
From the sound of it and from the growing size of the dust cloud, he knew the stampede was a big one, involving, he was sure, some fifteen thousand head of cattle. And those cattle could run for a hundred miles and take days to find and run back into the herd.
Well, he was patient.
It was still a long way to Ellsworth, and he would find Jock somewhere on the trail between here and there.
It was only a matter of time, and Abel had all the time in the world.
Chapter 26
It took the X8 hands two days to fully stop the stampede, and the hands spent most of another week rounding up strays, some of which had run forty, fifty, or sixty miles off course. Still, Jock kept the main body of the herd moving, for he knew that this would serve to calm them down. Chad was worried, though, and had slept little, as had many of the drovers, during and after the massive stampede.
“You need to learn how to sleep on horseback, Chad,” Jock told him. “You look like a derelict.”
“Sleep? What’s that?”
“It’s something that wipes those worry lines off your forehead.”
“I think they’re permanent, Jock.”
“Well then, Chad, take some comfort out of that stampede. It wasn’t all bad.”
“No? I could lose a thousand head or more.”
“You won’t lose that many. Might not lose any at all.”
“Where’s the comfort? We got hands scattered from hell to breakfast rounding up strays.”
“We gained some miles, Chad. Most of the herd, trained as they are, stayed to the trail. Sometimes I think they already know the way to Ellsworth.”
Chad snorted, but he smiled, too. “Yeah, we did gain some ground, all right, Jocko. Left old Torgerson, that conniving, evil-hearted bastard, in the dust.”
It was true, Jock thought. They had not lost any more men since the hanging, and he no longer had to send out scouts since they had taken care of the Apaches, whom he was certain had been sicced on them by Torgerson. At last sighting, Torgerson and his herd were well behind them and way off track.
But it was a long way to Ellsworth. They had many months of driving ahead of them and it would probably be winter before they got there. For now, it was high summer and the herd was moving well, with the leaders reestablished in their customary positions. There was a contentment among the cattle that could be seen in the way they grazed and bedded down at night. Jubilee and Mac kept all of them well fed, with fresh calves to butcher and deals made to buy staples and vegetables from farmers and ranchers. It was a good life, he reckoned. Hard, but good.
They crossed the salty Brazos near Waco, and drove on to the Sabine through a driving rain and annoying winds that plagued the drovers worse than the flies and gnats. By the time they reached the crossing at the Sabine, it was impassable. The rains had swollen the river until it was over its banks, and the west wind drove the rushing waters into a speedy froth.
“Cap’n,” Jesse Boyd said to Jock while they were waiting for the river to subside, “this might not be the time nor place, but Suzy Q wanted me to tell you something that might be important.”
Jock had been hunting for a suitable ford all morning and his mood was as dark as the threatening sky. He knew there was a chance for more rain, and if so, they could be a week or two getting across the Sabine.
“Something wrong with the remuda, Jesse?” Jock said.
“No, sir. Suzy Q’s doing just fine. So are the horses.”
“Then, what is it?”
“Well, sir, he says there’s been a rider dogging our trail for the past two weeks or more. Doesn’t catch up to us, but just keeps on coming.”
“And that has him worried?”
“Not exactly. It’s just a pester to him, like a bodacious itch, you know.”
“Well, I’ve got better things to worry about than a lone rider way down the line.”
“Cap’n, it just didn’t look right to me. I mean, there’s better places to go than to follow a pile of cow turds and grass eaten down to the scruff. When a man rides by hisself he sometimes seeks a little companionship, and this trail ain’t exactly Fort Worth.”
“No, it isn’t. Well, I can’t be bothered with a trifle like that just now. I’ve got men strung out all up and down this damned river looking for a ford, and we keep coming up with a moving ocean at every damned likely spot.”
Jock looked up at the sky, then back down to Jesse Boyd, his face contorted with the annoyance he felt inside.
“I took it upon myself, Cap’n, to do a little reconnoitering, just to put Suzy Q’s mind at ease.”
“What did you do, Jesse?”
“I laid back for a couple of nights. Drifted real slow to the south until I got behind this jasper. I borrowed a spyglass from Jubilee one night.”
“So, what did you find out, Jesse?” Jock tried to be patient with the young man, but it was a real chore under the circumstances.
“Well, sir, I stayed way out of sight, but I put that spyglass on him and studied him for the better part of two whole days.”
“Did you find out what he was up to, Jesse? Was he a bandit, a rustler?”
“I don’t rightly know his purpose, Cap’n, but I recognized him. I seen him when he come to Mr. Becker’s ranch looking for a job. Him and them two rowdies you hanged a while back.”
Jock felt as if a hammer had been cocked in his brain. A sudden jolt of electricity sparked a warning deep in his mind. He was already soaking wet, but now he felt cold and clammy, as if somebody had walked over his grave.
“Abel?” Jock said.
“Yes, sir, your brother. I seen him real plain.”
“What in hell is Abel doing following us?”
“I don’t rightly know.”
“Did you tell Suzy Q who it was you saw, Jesse?”
“No, sir. I come right straight to you.”
“Thanks, Jesse. You keep that information to yourself. Where is Abel now? Do you know?”
“I reckon he’s keeping his same distance, though I can’t rightly say. It took me a good half day to ride up here from where Suzy Q was wrangling the horses up to the river, what with the rain and all.”
Why was Abel following the X8 trail? Did he have a rift with Torgerson? Or was he working for Torgerson, up to no good? And why all the secrecy? If Abel had a purpose, so far he hadn’t shown his hand.
“He must be living off the land,” Jock said aloud. “He knows how. My pa and I taught him everything we knew.”
“He’s eating right good, Cap’n. I saw him pick up a stray calf and cut its throat, skin it out. He eats right well, I’d say.”
The sky got even darker and in the distance there was the rumble of thunder—an ominous sign on a day when the river was roaring by in full race. More rain would only make it harder to cross.
“You go on back to work, Jesse,” Jock said. “I’ll take care of Abel.”
“Yes, sir. I hope I done right, telling you what I seen.”
“You did. Keep your slicker handy, son.”
Jesse saluted and turned his horse. Jock watched him ri
de away and thought some more about his brother. Abel was up to something, that was certain. But what? If he had wanted to join the X8, he had had plenty of opportunity. No, he was up to no good. The problem was that Jock didn’t know what was on his brother’s mind. Not yet. But he was determined to find out.
Chad and Dewey rode up a moment or two later.
“What did young Jesse want?” Chad asked. “He’s supposed to be helping Suzy Q with the remuda.”
There was nothing to tell Chad, Jock reasoned. Nothing that would not worry him needlessly, and more than he worried now.
“I’m going to have to ride back and take a look at the remuda,” Jock lied. “Suzy Q sent Jesse to get me.”
“Oh, what’s the trouble?”
“I don’t know exactly. I won’t be long. We can’t cross this river now, so just tell everybody to sit tight. I’ll be back by morning.”
Chad didn’t protest. Jock didn’t give him time. He turned his horse and rode south, a plan forming in his mind. Along the way, he thought about Abel and felt a little guilty that he hadn’t paid more attention to him after their parents died. He had been so devoted to Twyla and so stung about losing that herd that he had let his little brother run wild. It was no wonder he had taken up with those two wastrels, Randy and D.F. It was no wonder that he had looked for excitement away from their ranch and had fallen in with bad companions.
His anger at Twyla’s death had subsided a great deal on this drive. He had had time to think it through. Life was such a funny thing, he mused. It could neither be planned nor measured. Sometimes the good died young. For no reason. Sometimes life made no sense, and Twyla’s death had seemed like the end of the world to him. But now he had distance between her death and the present. The herd, the drive, that was what gripped him now. That was his new love, perhaps his destiny. In looking back, one could see all the twists and turns in life, but one could never see the future. Who was to say that Twyla’s death was not meant to be? Perhaps that was her destiny, and perhaps her death had been preordained so that he could go on living and regain something he had lost. Life was a puzzle, all right, and Abel had taken his twists and turns, as well. Like a blind man. Like Jock himself. Both of them groping through the dark, both angry, both laying blame when perhaps neither of them was the target of the other.
The Ellsworth Trail Page 15
