“At least,” Flagg said.
“I’m plumb flabbergasted,” Dag said.
“Cows are herd animals. You just got to let them know where the herd ought to go. You got to be slow and patient. But when you’re roundin’ up outlaws, it works the same. When we run these into the main herd, they’ll think they’re home for good. It don’t take long.”
Dag knew that, but he had never seen it work like this. He knew that he had made the right decision in hiring Flagg as trail boss.
The morning sun bleached away most of the shadows and lit the grasses and cacti with a shower of golden light. Dew sparkled like tiny jewels on the plain, and the scent of cactus flowers wafted to Dag’s nostrils. The cholla and the nopal were in bloom, the aroma from them heady in the air like some exotic perfume.
The chuck wagon pulled up and stopped nearby a few moments later. Finnerty set the brake as his daughter, Jo, hopped down. He began to set up his cooking irons while Jo cleared ground for a firepit. As he was driving the irons into the ground, she gathered firewood and stacked it next to the place she had cleared. Then she gathered rocks and made a fire ring while her father set up a bench using two sawhorses and a two-by-twelve board. As Jo started the fire, Fingers began mixing flour and water for flapjacks, cracking eggs into the mixture and stirring it with a wooden ladle.
Jo began helping her father after the fire was burning well. She was seemingly oblivious to all that was going on around them. The hands were bulldogging the unbranded outlaw cattle, and four men were pressing hot irons on the hips of the downed cows. The air was filled with the smell of burning hair and flesh. The men grunted and cursed, trying to ignore the smell of food less than a hundred yards away.
Little Jake and Paco led the branded cattle into the main herd, set them to grazing. Caleb Newcomb worked one of the D Slash irons, while Jorge Delgado and Ricardo Mendoza held down the cow to be marked. Dag branded while Ed Langley, another of his hands, and Ricardo Mendoza sat on a squirming steer. Lonnie Cavins branded the cows held down by Chavez and Horton. Flagg and Doofus Wallace kept bringing in a half dozen or so cows at a time, then rode back and rounded up more, dragging some in with ropes, herding those they could.
Fingers held off cooking the flapjacks until all the cows were branded and run into the herd. But he set two large coffeepots with spouts on the fire. Then he started pouring the mix onto large skillets while Jo flipped the flapjacks. There were maple syrup hauled in from Corpus Christi, fried potatoes, and sausage from hogs raised on Finnerty’s spread, recently butchered and barreled in brine.
Fingers rang the triangle and the hands who weren’t tending the herd streamed over to the chuck wagon like ants to honey. Some of the hands already had empty coffee cups in their hands, the aroma of coffee hung in the air like the delicious taste of chocolate.
Jimmy Gough finished securing the remuda and sauntered over to the group around the chuck wagon and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Boy,” he said, “I can smell the bacon, Fingers. Sugar-cured, I’ll bet.”
“Just like you, Jimmy,” Finnerty cracked.
“How do you keep all them hogs from runnin’ off, Fingers?” Wallace, one of the D Slash cowhands, asked.
“You got to know how to build fences, Doofus. Somethin’ you cowpokes can’t do. That’s why you’re always chasin’ your cattle.”
“And how do you build your fences, Fingers?”
“Only one way to build a fence in this country,” Finnerty said, “horse high, pig tight and bull strong. I use oak, Doofus, for my fences and for paddles to spank cowboys.”
Everyone laughed and Wallace’s face turned a pale rose.
Amid the clatter of plates and forks, Jo Finnerty walked over with her plate and sat beside Dag, who had taken one of the planks from the wagon and laid it out over the rocky ground.
“Hello, Dag,” she said. “Tired?”
He looked at her. She looked fetching in her colorful calico dress and light sweater, which was blue to match her eyes. She wore a blue ribbon in her hair, as well. Her smile was as warm as the rising sun.
“Yeah, Jo, plumb tuckered.”
“We can pull the wagon into the shade and you can sleep underneath.”
“I’m not real sleepy. I slept in the saddle some last night.”
“Well, suit yourself. I don’t want to spoil you.”
“Oh, I can be spoiled real easy, Jo.”
“Then maybe I will,” she said, her voice low and throaty.
Dag thought it had the quality of silk being rubbed by soft hands. He could see why Laura would be jealous of her. She was a beautiful young woman. She kept herself neat and clean and she always smelled like flowers. He could smell her now as she drank her coffee and picked daintily at her plate. But he had known her since pigtails and it was hard now to think of her as a grown woman. Yet she was grown, and he knew she didn’t have a beau. They had always been close, but now he knew that something had changed between them. He could no longer sit her on his knee and tousle her hair, or lift her by her arms and swing her around him like a girl on a carousel.
“What was the name of this hog, Fingers?” Lonnie Cavins asked. “It tastes mighty good.”
“I don’t name no pigs I plan to eat, Lonnie. But if I was to have named this ‘un, it might have been Lonnie.”
More laughter and the talk among the hands floated around Jo and Dag as they sat together, both of them silent, as if each were wrestling with unspoken thoughts.
“How come you don’t keep milk cows, Fingers?” Chad Myers asked.
Finnerty was still making flapjacks, shoveling them onto empty plates. “I keep milk cows. Put the milk in the feed for the hogs every mornin’.”
“The trouble with milk cows,” Carl Costello said, “is they don’t stay milked.”
They all laughed at that. Carl had hands that were cracked and blistered. He had milked cows since he was old enough to grasp a teat.
“You ought to know, Carl,” Myers said. “I shook hands with him once’t and he stripped every dang one of my fingers to see if they had any milk left on ’em.”
Jo had scooted closer to Dag so that her leg touched his. Dag didn’t notice it at first, but when his leg started to heat up, he knew that she had done it deliberately. No harm in that, he thought. But he felt the pressure and moved his leg slightly. It still burned.
“Felix,” she said, “do you remember that time we went fishing in that catfish pond at Daddy’s?”
“Yes, I remember it. About five years ago, wasn’t it?”
“It was just after a spring rain,” she said, “and the banks were muddy.”
“And slippery.”
She laughed.
“You warned me to be careful, but I didn’t listen. I was eager to catch the first fish. We had dug worms on the way there and I grabbed the can away from you.”
“You were a scamp, all right, Jo.”
“I climbed up on the bank and was about to sit down and put a worm on my hook, when I slid down the smooth bank and fell into the water. I screamed and beat the water. I couldn’t swim.”
“Yeah. You were quite a sight, Jo.”
“You dove in after me and lifted me up in your arms. I fought you because I was scared of drowning, but you got me to the bank and pulled me out. You helped me up to the top and onto dry ground. You held me tight because I was shaking like a leaf.”
“I built a fire and you finally dried out.”
“I know,” she said. “But sometimes, often really, when I’m in bed at night trying to sleep, I can still feel your arms around me, just like they were on that day.”
“Jo, you shouldn’t talk about these things. Not here. Not right now.”
“Why? It’s how I feel, Felix.”
“I know. But I’m married.”
She bit her lip, locking out what she wanted to say. Her hand touched his leg. He looked up at her.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I just wanted you to know a
bout that. Because it happened again last night. You were so near, out there with the cattle, yet so far.”
“Jo . . . don’t.”
She took her hand away and sighed.
A few yards away, Horton watched them with narrowed eyes. He sighed too. With satisfaction.
Chapter 10
Flagg took charge shortly after breakfast. He assigned men to ride to places he designated in order to round up more unbranded outlaw cattle. He sent three different groups, one with Horton, another with Mendoza, and a third with Noriega. He sent two men with each leader.
“Those of you going with these men I’ve put in charge will do what they say. They learned last night how to catch outlaws. You’ll go to the watering holes, the outlying tanks, and to shaded places where cattle bed down during the heat of the day. Catch what sleep you can, and bring back some outlaws to brand. We won’t be here by the time you get back, so figure out where we’ll be by sundown and catch up with us.”
The men all nodded and rode off, their saddles dripping with coiled lariats.
He ordered those who stayed behind to sleep for one hour. After that, he said, they would get the herd moving again, at a very slow, grazing pace. He put Manny Chavez in charge of assigning positions for the drive.
“I’ll take the point,” Flagg told Chavez.
“When the herd is moving, you ride drag and take care that none of the cows stray far from the herd.”
“I got it, boss,” Chavez said.
“Where do you want me, Jubal?” Dag asked.
“You’ll take the right flank, ahead of Chavez. Have the remuda and the chuck wagon follow us at a distance of two miles in case we run into anything.”
“What anything?” Dag asked.
“Well, maybe Comanch’,” Flagg replied, “or Apache.”
“We’re shorthanded for that sort of shit,” Dag said, “until Matlee and his bunch catch up with us.”
“When do you expect them?”
“No later than noon. Maybe an hour or so before then.”
“We’ll stop at high noon for lunch,” Flagg said. “Then maybe we can get organized with the Box M boys and add some more outlaws to this herd.”
“I saw a lot of wild cattle last year, when I made the trip north,” Dag said. “But I expect a lot of ’em are branded by now.”
“Dag, there are millions of Mexican cattle in Texas and probably millions still wandering around not carrying brands. We’ll fill this herd, by God, and all of us will make a few dollars.”
“What about the trail I picked, up the Palo Duro? Do we stand a good chance of making the drive with four thousand head or so?”
“One trail’s as good as another, and most side trails lead to the main ones. One thing I’ve learned since Charlie Goodnight started his trail is that there are as many trails to the rail-heads as there are ranches in Texas.”
Dag laughed. “I believe that.”
The herd moved out under a blue sky flocked with little cloud puffs scattered over the heavens like clusters of picked cotton. The herd was surly, but the pace Flagg set that morning didn’t cause any mutiny among them. When a cow lay down, Flagg told the men to let it rest until the man riding drag reached it. Chavez would prod it back on its feet and it could eat the same dust as he was.
Noon came and there was still no sign of Matlee. Dag kept watching for telltale dust, but the back trail was empty, and he felt hollow inside. He wondered if anything had happened to Barry. He kept his concerns to himself.
Fingers fed the hands beans and beef, bread that was already turning hard, peaches served from the airtights he had brought with him, and strong coffee. There was little banter during the meal. The men were tired and the cattle were starting to sprawl out with only three riders making the circuit around the herd. Those would eat later and by then the herd would be moving again.
The men who had gone out that morning to round up outlaw cattle returned, and there was more branding. This time, Dag and Cavins used the cookfire to heat the irons. The riders ate quickly, as Flagg questioned them.
“Any more where these came from?” he asked.
“They’re scattered all over,” Horton said, “and they’re wild as March hares.”
“You brought thirty head,” Flagg said.
“We brought thirty-two head,” Horton said, correcting him. “I counted them twenty times on the way here.”
“You gettin’ nervous about somethin’, Don?”
“No,” Horton said, almost too quickly. “It’s just that these were so hard to come by, I didn’t want to lose even one head.”
“What are you doin’ with those wearin’ brands?” Flagg asked.
“We’ve been chasin’ ’em well away so they don’t foller us back here.”
“Well, some showed up, anyways.”
“You run ’em off?”
“I didn’t recognize the brands. There were Circle T and some Lazy R. A few with notched ears. If the owners come lookin’ for them, I’ll either give ’em back or buy ’em for the going price.”
“Maybe we don’t need to check brands so close no more,” Horton said.
“Don, when you make your gather, you cut out the branded cows. If some foller you back to the herd, you can’t help that none. We’ll sort it all out when the time comes.”
“I don’t hanker to be caught rustlin’ another man’s cattle,” Horton said.
“Well, you ain’t, so don’t worry about it. Cattle go where they want to go, and on a drive, we can’t help what gets mixed in.”
“That makes sense,” Horton said.
Dag listened to all this without saying anything. After Horton and the others rode off after more wild cattle, he spoke to Flagg.
“Jubal,” Dag said, “what do we do about these odd brands when we get to Cheyenne? How do we explain those that aren’t Box M or D Slash?”
Flagg rolled a cigarette while Fingers and Jo scrubbed plates with dirt and washed them, put out the fire, and packed up the sawhorses and boards. He lit his cigarette with a lucifer and blew the smoke into the air where the breeze shredded all but the acid aroma.
“If this was a regular roundup, we’d have representatives from all the ranches around us.”
“Right,” Dag said.
“And if we had time, I could ride to every ranch and offer to buy the head that follered us or just tell the owner to come and pick up his cows.”
“That’s right, Jubal.”
“But we ain’t got time to ride a hunnert miles a day lookin’ for owners of strays.”
“No, we don’t.”
“So we got some other choices, Dag. We can fill out false bills of sale and hope to hell we don’t get caught, or we can use a runnin’ iron on them strays and pray to Jesus we don’t get caught with the irons or that the buyer finds out what we done.”
“Shit, Jubal. We could all get hanged.”
“Or just you, Dag.”
Jubal pulled on his cigarette and let the smoke dribble out of the side of his mouth.
Dag put a hand to his throat, massaged the flesh as if it were some precious material, which it was.
“I don’t much like the idea of that,” Dag said.
“There’s another thing comes to mind. A couple, really.”
“Yeah?”
“First off, when we butcher a beef on the trail, you can bet, by God, that it’ll be a cow wearin’ a brand what ain’t none of ours.”
“And the other?”
“We keep a tally at the stockyard in Cheyenne and pay the ranchers when we get back. Adding, maybe, a little profit, but just a little.”
“Some might say we took advantage.”
“I reckon some might,” Flagg said.
Dag looked out at all the cattle. They were moving now, slowly streaming north, in no particular hurry. He was still far short of the number of head he had to have to fill the contract in Cheyenne. Fingers was finished packing the chuck wagon. Jo had gone off to relieve herself and he
saw her walking back, patting her hair, straightening her dress. She waved to him and he nodded, still preoccupied with all that he and Flagg had discussed.
“Well, Jubal, what do you reckon I ought to do? We’ll have to tell Matlee about the odd brands.”
“Yeah, you would. Or just let him find out.”
“No, I’m going to tell him straight out.”
“That would be my advice.”
“So what do we do if Matlee wants those odd brands cut out?”
“Reason with him,” Jubal said. “And if he says cut ’em out, we cut ’em out.”
“And what happens if we keep all those brands in our herd and we have to explain them to the buyer in Cheyenne?”
“If he’s a cattleman, he might look the other way, give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Dag, there’s some decisions you have to make on your own. Don’t go lookin’ for trouble. But if it comes, just meet it head on.”
“What would you do, Jubal, if this was your herd?”
“In a way, it is my herd, Dag. I’m responsible for it. What I say goes, on the drive. So I say we keep what we got and cull what we can for vittles along the way, and then let the damned chips fall where they fall.”
Jimmy Gough and Little Jake were setting out with the remuda. Dust rose in the air and wafted away like red and brown smoke.
“All right, Jubal. I guess we’ll go with what we have. We didn’t steal those cattle.”
“No, you can’t help it if some other man’s cattle want to foller you clear across the Red and on up to Cheyenne.”
Flagg walked away and climbed aboard his horse. Dag watched him go, then saw Jo climb up onto the wagon seat next to Fingers. She turned and smiled at him. She waved and he waved back.
“See you tonight,” she called, as the wagon lurched into motion.
Dag didn’t reply. He caught up his horse and stepped into the saddle, but he didn’t move. He looked back down the trail from where they had come and scanned the sky. There wasn’t a speck of dust, just an emptiness that was like the hollow in the pit of his stomach.
No sign of Matlee and his hands.
Dag tilted his head and marked the passage of the sun in its arc. It was well past noon, well past the time when Matlee should have rejoined the drive.
The Palo Duro Trail Page 6
