Dag laughed. “Yeah, they can ride. Jimmy’s just right particular, that’s all.”
“Boys, come here,” Flagg said. “You speak English?”
Both young men nodded.
“What’s your name, feller?” Flagg asked the taller of the two.
“Paco Noriega.”
“And, you, what’s your name?”
“Ricardo Mendoza.”
“How come Jimmy called you Pancho and Cholo.”
“He don’t like us much,” Paco said. “He knows our names. He makes fun of us.”
“You know cows?” Flagg asked.
“Yes, the cows, we know them,” Paco said.
“Fine, you boys will ride with me tonight. We’re going to steal some cows. I’m going to teach you boys how to rustle cattle.”
“Oh, no, we do not steal,” Ricardo said. “We are honest men.”
“They’ll do,” Flagg said to Dag. To the two Mexicans, he said, “Don’t worry. We’re going to rustle cattle the legal way.”
“Okay, Ricardo, Paco, you saddle two horses to ride,” Dag said. “Bring some rope. We’ll light out right after the sun goes down.”
“Yes, sir,” both boys chorused. They ran off to catch their horses.
“You could have picked me a better pair than those two, Dag.”
“You wanted two of the dumbest. They’ve had schooling and they do speak English. But they can’t count and sometimes you have to tell them twice to do something that’s a mite complicated.”
“That’s real good, Dag. I’d rather work with boys who want to learn than with men who think they know it all.”
“I still don’t know what you have in mind, Jubal, but I like the legal part. Just keep in mind that I can’t afford to buy the cattle I need for this drive.”
“That’s exactly what I’m keeping in mind, Dag. Don’t you worry about a thing, hear?”
Flagg left to look over the herd. Dag walked over to Jimmy, who had just finished hobbling the last horse.
“You’re going to have to take those hobbles off right after sunset, Jimmy.”
“Huh?”
“Flagg wants us to move the herd ten miles north tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. What do you think?”
“Well, we’ve got us a full moon, or near-bouts. We can do it, I reckon. Matlee will wonder where in hell we went.”
“By the time he gets here tomorrow, he’ll know.”
“Who’s taking the lead?” Jimmy asked.
“I am. Flagg’s going off to round up more cattle.”
Jimmy snorted.
“You don’t like Jubal much, do you, Jimmy?”
“I don’t know many who do.”
“Why?”
Jimmy looked down at his feet, kicked a clod of dirt. “I don’t know a man like Jubal Flagg,” Gough said. “He’s hard. Not just outside, but inside. He don’t give no leeway. You know he hanged one man.”
“I heard that,” Dagstaff said. “A rustler, wasn’t it?”
“Horse thief, yeah. When he was working at the Z Bar.”
“So?”
“He horsewhipped a man for mistreating a cow when he worked at the Circle S. Near killed him.”
“I don’t hold with mistreating animals either, Jimmy.”
“They say he shot a man over to Corpus one time. Over a woman.”
“Rumors, Jimmy.”
“Well, he sets hisself up as judge, jury, and executioner a mite too much to suit me, Dag.”
“I asked him about that, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. What did he say?”
“He said he did what he did because, at the time, he was the only law around. He said we can’t have any kind of society without laws. And if there’s no law around and you see a man commit a crime, you’re both the law and society.”
“That sounds like prime bullshit to me, Dag.”
“Maybe so. But he’s the best there is at driving cattle, handling men.”
“He handles men because they’re scared of him.”
“Are you scared of him, Jimmy?”
“Hah. He don’t scare me none.”
“Good. Because Flagg’s the boss of this outfit and I don’t want any trouble about his authority.”
“If Flagg speaks for you, I foller him. But if he tells me to do something that’s wrong for the horses, I’ll buck him.”
“You’re the head wrangler, Jimmy. That won’t change.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
After supper, Dag got the herd moving. The longhorns bellowed and groaned as they set out in the darkness, with the moon just clearing the horizon. He had a good lead cow, and once the entire herd was moving, they formed a river under the rising moon, a steady flow over the pewtered land, with the outriders flanking them like ghost men on dark horses.
Flagg, along with the men he had picked for the night’s work, rode off to the west and disappeared in the darkness. The chuck wagon rumbled along well behind the herd, its pots and pans clanging softly like a chorus of distant cowbells. The wagon was invented by Charlie Goodnight, the most famous trail-breaker of them all. And the horses pulling the wagon were stepping out like circus performers on parade, their hides limned by the moonlight so that they seemed bathed in a soft silver fire.
Chapter 8
Flagg led his men deep into desolate country, following a path only he knew. A couple of the horses were skittish, balking at every dark shape, sidestepping clumps of brush and rock outcroppings as if the objects were alive and had teeth and fangs. Some miles from the herd of cattle they had left behind, Flagg reined up and held a hand up to stop the others. When they rode alongside, he finally spoke, in a solemn whisper.
“Right over yonder, beyond that next rise,” he said, “is a watering hole. That’s where we ought to find some outlaws.”
“Outlaws?” Paco said.
“Wild cattle with no brands.”
Paco nodded in understanding.
“Now this is dangerous work, boys. And you’re going to have to shake out them ropes. I want to go down there and rope at least four head, if we can. Then we’ll check for brands. Chase ’em if you have to.”
“How many head do you figure are at that watering hole?” Don Horton asked.
“There’s always a dozen or so,” Flagg said.
“Be hard to rope in the dark like this,” Paco Noriega said. He noticed that Flagg, Horton, and Chavez had three or four separate ropes tied to their saddles. He and Mendoza only had one rope apiece.
Flagg looked up, pointed to the nearly full moon. There were a few clouds in the sky, but there were scattered balls of white fluff, and none were near the moon at the moment.
“After we rope some and check for brands, we’ll lead those we catch back to the herd, then go to another place for more. We’ll be at this all night, boys. Any questions?”
“What’s dangerous about it?” Paco asked.
“Some of these steers have been wild for a long time. They’ll fight if they’re cornered. Those long horns aren’t just on their heads for decoration. They can gore you clean through the gut without you ever seeing it coming. Just be careful, all right?”
The others nodded.
“Now,” Flagg said, “we’ll split up and fan out, circle the watering hole. I’ll go in and rope the first one. The others may hold just out of plain curiosity. You all come in fast with your loops built and start snaring cattle like they was catfish in a barrel.”
Flagg turned his horse and circled the rise to the left. He motioned for Don and Manny to go to the right. The two young Mexicans followed Flagg, spreading out, watching him closely.
The small pond—what many in that part of the country called a stock tank, or a tank—looked like a rippled mirror in the moonlight. At its edges, dark shapes loomed as indiscernible objects, casting shadows along the edge of the water. There were soft sucking sounds and small splashing noises that drowned out the sawing, hi
gh-pitched drone of crickets and the throaty moans of bullfrogs.
Flagg reined his horse to turn it, then prodded its flank with his left spur. The horse, trained to do this, sidled down the slope toward the tank, its hooves falling soft on the ground. Flagg halted the horse when he was about fifteen feet from the edge of the water.
He waited. One cow lifted its head, its curved horns gleaming a velvety black in the moonlight. Flagg swung the rope, letting the loop out, then sailed it toward the set of horns jutting up above the hulks of the other cows. The rope made a low whirring sound and then dropped perfectly over the horns. Flagg jerked out the slack, wound part of rope around his saddle horn, pulled in hard on the reins, and dug in his spurs to both flanks of his horse. The horse backed up, pulling the cow’s head sideways until the animal turned and followed the path of least resistance. The other cattle, a dozen or so, looked up, and there was a phalanx of horns silhouetted against the reflective water of the pond. Riders rode in from two directions, swinging their loops overhead. Swish, swish, swish. The ropes sailed through the air. One of the lassoed cattle fell down and let out a long mournful groan from deep in its chest. The other cattle scattered, their heads swinging from side to side, heads lowered, horns thrusting.
The pond churned as hooves splashed along the edge. Ripples marred the mirrored surface and frogs leaped into the water with soggy plops. The crickets went silent and the roped cows fought to get free of the loops around their horns, shaking their heads and bucking, kicking their hind legs while in the air.
“Bunch ’em up,” Flagg said, dragging his cow toward one that was cavorting like some galvanized being at the end of Horton’s rope.
The others rode toward Flagg, pulling their catches behind them.
“Pack ’em close,” Flagg said.
Cattle were herd animals and he knew that these would calm down if they could feel their own kind near. When the cows were lined up, he dismounted. His horse backed up, to keep the rope taut, as it had been trained to do. Flagg ran his hands over the rumps of the cows, feeling for brands. He pushed and prodded their rear ends in order to take advantage of the moon and starlight.
“No brands,” he said. “Outlaws.”
“Those others didn’t run far,” Horton said.
“They’re all bunched up yonder starin’ down here at us.”
“I know,” Flagg said. “Tie these up, hobble ’em good, and we’ll go after the others. I think they’re all part of a wild bunch.”
The men worked quickly, securing the cattle so that they could not run away. Then, as Flagg motioned them into a pincer formation, they rode a wide circle around those cows that had escaped. As they drew near from three sides, however, one of the cows bolted and the others quickly followed.
“After ’em,” Flagg shouted and the riders streamed after the fleeing cattle, shaking out fresh ropes. Horton and Chavez had given the young Mexicans an extra rope each.
The cattle started to run almost immediately. The riders fanned out as the cattle did and each man tracked down a cow, their horses galloping over the eerie landscape after shadows.
The cows knew every trick. They dodged, backtracked, circled, stood their ground, and then bolted. But, one by one, each rider lassoed the cows they chased and brought them under submission. They all headed back to the cows they had left tied up, where Flagg again checked for brands. None of the cattle had markings on their ears or bodies and he grunted with satisfaction.
“Let’s lead these back, then hit another tank,” Flagg said. “What we’ll do, though, is track to a point ahead of the main herd. Or nearbouts.”
“Who will watch them?” Paco asked, as he rode alongside Flagg, leading two cows, as did the others.
“We’ll tie ’em up tonight, brand them in the morning when the herd catches up. By then, they will stay with the herd.”
“Just hogtie them?” Ricardo wanted to know.
“We’ll hobble them. I’ll leave one of you to watch over ’em. But we’ll wait here for a while, then move slowly. Those cattle that scattered should pick our trail and follow us. We won’t even have to rope ’em.”
“I hope you have more ropes,” Ricardo said.
“Oh, we have plenty of rope, more than you really want, chamaco. By morning, you’ll never want to see another rope, much less hold one in your hand.”
“No soy chamaco. Soy un hombre,” Ricardo said defensively. “I’m not a boy. I’m a man.”
“I know,” Flagg said in Spanish. “But you could be one of my sons.”
“Do you have sons?”
“Nope. Kids get on my nerves.”
After that, Ricardo rode with his friend, Paco, keeping his distance from Flagg.
As Flagg had said, some of the scattered cows began to follow them on their slow course back in the direction of the trail drive. Flagg knew they would stay with the others once he bedded them down for the night.
He decided to leave Horton to watch over those first cows, while he and the others rode back to the chuck wagon to pick up more lariats. The chuck wagon, besides carrying cooking utensils and food, served as a supply wagon, with boxes of horseshoes, nails, extra wood to repair broken wheels, hubs, rope, and medicines. The wagon was, Flagg knew, a necessary component to any long trail drive.
“Let’s count head,” Flagg said, as he finished hobbling the lead cow. They had brought the cattle next to a small creek, and tied two head to different trees. There were grass and water for the small bunch, and they could be reached later on, in the morning, when it came time to brand the outlaws and shunt them into the main herd.
“See you in the mornin’, Jubal,” Horton said, as Flagg and the others rode off to the south for more rope.
“You get some rest, Don. It’s going to be like this for a while.”
“I know,” Horton said, and started building himself a cigarette with the makings in his pocket. He built a small fire to keep warm. It was already turning chilly and midnight was a long way off.
In the far dark, where the moon’s light did not stretch, deep in the hardwood canyon called the Palo Duro, coyotes yapped then broke into melodious ribbons of chromatic song—cries that ranged up and down the scale in some ancient cryptic language. Horton listened to them and felt a chill course down his spine. The coyotes seemed to be intoning a kind of death song and death was on his mind that night.
He wriggled his toes in his right boot. He felt the padded oilskin folder with five hundred-dollar bills inside. Deutsch had written out an agreement and had signed it. That was in the packet too. Deuce had given him that money before he left the Rocking D to go with Flagg. It was just a down payment. There were three more packets containing five hundred dollars each waiting for him when he finished the job.
As he smoked, Horton mulled over a way to accomplish his tasks so that they would look like accidents and he would not be suspected.
Deuce wanted him to kill Felix Dagstaff and Jubal Flagg before they reached the Red River. His reward would be two thousand dollars and the deed to Flagg’s ranch, which Deuce assured him would be free and clear if Flagg died on the cattle drive north.
The notes of the coyote songs faded away and the moon seemed to glow even brighter as Horton blew a plume of smoke into the air. The smoke floated like a gossamer ghost above his head before the breeze tore it into wisps and the last shred vanished.
Deuce had asked Horton for his loyalty, and he had gladly sworn it to his boss. For the rewards Deuce had promised, a man could be very loyal. Now all he had to do was figure a way to kill two men without arousing any suspicion that he had done it. And he knew, along the Palo Duro, with a large herd of cattle, there would be plenty of opportunities to carry out his deadly mission.
Chapter 9
Dag saw the orange glimmer of a fire along the ragged line of dogwoods. He held up his hand to halt the drive, spoke to the man riding a few yards behind him.
“This is where we stop,” Dag said.
The cattle fann
ed out over the grasslands as dawn was breaking. Off to the left, the hands could see the fire by the creek. They all figured that it meant the end of a long night and the lead rider, Caleb Newcomb, a D Slash hand, flanked the lead cow and started turning the herd to bunch it up and let it water at the creek. Dag looked back at the outriders and signaled for his men to let the herd graze. They had covered nine or ten miles during the night. The men and the stock were tired and hungry.
Little Jake rode up to Dag on the point, met him as he was riding toward the fire and smoke.
“I hope that chuck wagon catches up pretty quick, Mr. Dagstaff,” Little Jake said.
“You still got butterflies in your belly, Little Jake?”
“Heck, I got butterflies, moths, crawlin’ spiders, and doodlebugs, sir.”
“Well, you cracked your cherry last night, son.”
“Huh?”
Dag laughed. “Just a joke, Little Jake. Let’s see what we got over here. I see cattle by the creek. Must be Flagg’s bunch. Go over yonder and holler at Lonnie and tell him to bring the D Slash irons.”
“Yes, sir.” Little Jake rode off to tell Lonnie Cavins to fetch the branding irons.
Don Horton was puffing on a quirly when Dag rode up. He looked disheveled, red-eyed. The herd around him had swelled, but Flagg was there too, helping the others keep the outlaw cattle from joining the main herd.
“You get a head count?” Dag asked.
“Flagg says we got over forty head,” Horton said. “I was catching some shut-eye when he brought in this last bunch.”
“Better put some more wood on that fire, Don. We got irons comin’.”
Lonnie Cavins carried the D Slash branding irons in his saddlebags. He had four of them in the fire by the time Flagg rode up to talk to Dagstaff.
“You done good, Jubal,” Dag said.
“It’s a start. There are some more wild cattle just over that hillock there. Followed us in like sheep early this morning.”
“How many?”
“Upward of fifty, I reckon. Some folks don’t tend their ranches like they should.”
Dag let out a low whistle.
“You mean you rounded up over a hundred head last night?”
The Palo Duro Trail Page 5
