The Palo Duro Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Up on the flat, Dag could smell the urine and cowpies when the wind was right. At mealtimes, the crew halted by a game trail leading down into the canyon, where the men could walk up and get their grub. At night, Dag, Jo, and Fingers sat by the fire, talking beneath the stars. They’d had no trouble avoiding the prairie dog town, although once or twice, the two men had had to take shovels and fill in holes that the mules might drop a leg into. They managed, though, to stay ahead of the slow-moving herd.

  Matlee showed up on the third day, with more than three hundred head of cattle, the hands branded well into the night and the next morning before all were turned into the herd.

  “We’re gettin’ there, Dag,” Flagg said.

  “Yeah, real slow though.”

  “We still got a long ways to go before we hit the Red, and they’s ranches on both sides of the canyon—and lots of gullies and brush where the wild ones can hide.”

  “I saw a bunch of my men riding out this morning,” Dag said. “Hunting outlaws?”

  “Yep. And Matlee’s boys are hard at it too. We also picked up a few head in the canyon that just joined up with us. Lonesome, I reckon.”

  Dag chortled. “Every little bit helps,” he said.

  “Well, we don’t need as many hands and there’s plenty of wild cattle in this part of Texas. We’ll make do.”

  “Sure, Jubal.”

  It wasn’t until the next day that Dag had a chance to talk with Matlee. He had come in late the night before, to the chuck wagon and used the cookfire to heat the irons. He and his men branded sixteen head and ran them down into the canyon to join the herd, which was bedded down for the night. There was much lowing and the whinnying of horses as the strange cattle mingled with the growing herd.

  “I haven’t seen Horton about,” Dag said. “He didn’t come in with you?”

  “Naw, Don said he was going to scout ahead the other day. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “He have grub to do that?”

  “He didn’t ask for none. So I guess so. How come you want to know about that?”

  Dag told him about the chuck wagon break-in some four or five days before.

  “Mighty peculiar,” Matlee said.

  “Yeah, ain’t it, though?”

  “Are you thinkin’ Horton stole that grub?”

  “Well, put two and two together, Barry: Horton’s gone, and he didn’t ask you for no grub. If he knew he was goin’ to be ridin’ off by hisself, all he had to do was ask Fingers for some extra chuck.”

  “I see what you mean, Dag.” Matlee lifted his hat and scratched his pate. “Don’t make no sense, you put it that way.”

  “No, it don’t. Unless Horton was huntin’ somethin’ else like.”

  “Like what?”

  “I dunno. Maybe me. When Jo and I went fishin’ a few nights ago, somebody took a shot at me or her at that catfish pond.”

  “First I heard of it.”

  “Yeah. I haven’t told anyone. But Jo said he was watchin’ me all the time, and before you and your boys lit out, he was eyein’ the chuck wagon, seein’ what all Fingers put away and where he put it. You take three or four suspicions like that and you got a whole passel of evidence. Maybe circumstantial, but evidence none the damned less.”

  “Boy, Dag, you better, by God, be sure before you accuse a good cowhand like Horton of such shenanigans.”

  “I’ve been studyin’ on that some, Barry, the past few days.”

  Dag pulled the makings from his pocket and handed the sack to Matlee. Matlee took the tobacco and Dag fished out the papers and handed those to him. Barry rolled a cigarette, licked it tight, and stuck it in his mouth. He handed the makings back to Dag, who rolled a quirly for himself. Then he struck a match and lit Matlee’s cigarette and his own.

  The two men, deep in thought, pulled a few puffs from their cigarettes.

  “So, Dag, what do you figure?” Matlee asked.

  “I never had no quarrel with Don Horton. Barely know the man. Flagg said he’s worked many a gather with the hombre and vouches for him. I ain’t seen nothin’ to make me feel different.”

  “Maybe he’s not the jasper who took a shot at you, Dag.”

  “Might not be. But as I said, I got to thinkin’, what with all these suspicions rollin’ around in my head, and then I went back to a time just before we left on this drive.”

  “And?”

  “And Deuce come over to the house and raised pure Cain ’cause he said I stole Horton and Manny from him when I didn’t know a damned thing about it. He went and bought the papers on my spread and threatened to take my land and house if I didn’t make my payment next year.”

  “Deuce is a devil. A hard man in a trade.”

  “So what if, before Horton left, Deuce offered him some money to rub me out so’s I couldn’t make that payment?”

  Matlee let out a low whistle and shook his head. “Well, Deuce is a mighty hard man and he has the scruples of a dog in heat. I sure wouldn’t put something like that past the son of a bitch.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Well, I reckon you just got to keep your eyes peeled, Dag. And watch your back.”

  “Yeah,” Dag said, feeling an emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

  The days passed with no sign of Horton. Flagg told Dagstaff that it was time to run the herd out of the canyon and back on to the plain.

  “We’re just movin’ too slow and there ain’t enough grass to fatten the cows no more.”

  The herd had swelled even more with many of the hands riding out at night and during the day to scout for outlaws. Dag wasn’t keeping an exact tally, but he knew they had close to three thousand head, which was encouraging.

  “ ’Sides,” Flagg said, “I been seein’ Injun sign.”

  “You have? Tracks?”

  “Tracks. Some old, some more recent like.”

  “Well, we know there are Comanch’ and Kiowa huntin’ this canyon, livin’ in it.”

  “Yesterday, I saw what looked like mirror flashes up ahead of us. Could have been the sunshine glancin’ off rocks, but I don’t think so.”

  “We got plenty of men, Jubal. They might think twice before comin’ at us.”

  “Stealin’ is in a redskin’s blood. I doubled the nighthawks when we bedded the herd down, just in case.”

  “Good idea,” Dag said.

  The next morning, Flagg found a place where the canyon wall to the west dipped low and the slope wasn’t so steep. He ordered the outriders to bunch up the herd while he ran the lead cow up the slope. The herd followed in a steady stream of horns and cowhides, the cows lowing like a bunch of grumbling stockyard beeves going to slaughter.

  There were plenty of grass on the plain and creeks running well. Prairie flowers grew as far as a man could see, and the moon rose like an alabaster planet every night, growing full again.

  And still Dag saw no sign of Horton. Nor did Flagg see any more signal mirrors flashing in the sun, if that was what he had seen in the first place.

  Matlee was scouring the country with his men, bringing in some cattle every time he came back; the branding irons were kept hot, it seemed, all day long and into the night.

  At the chuck wagon one evening, when many of the hands from both ranches were finished with supper, sitting around, jawing and smoking, Finnerty spoke to Jimmy.

  “You didn’t bring your git-tar, Jimmy?” Fingers said.

  “Naw, Fingers. Figgered the remuda would take up all my time. And it do.”

  Finnerty laughed. “I brought one, just in case.”

  “Just in case what?” Gough asked.

  “In case your fingers got to itchin’. Want to play us a tune or two?”

  Jimmy smiled. “You read my mind, Bill? My fingers have been plumb lonesome for a set of wire strings.”

  “This’uns got catgut.”

  “That’ll do.”

  So Finnerty brought out the worn Mexican guitar. Jimmy tuned it like a master and began to pl
ay “Buffalo Gals.” Jo stood next to Dag and some of the men began to join in on the chorus. When he livened up the music, some of the men started dancing the jig like drunken fools.

  Jo turned to Dag. “Dance with me, Felix?”

  “Onliest way I could dance them jigs was if I dropped a lighted cigarette butt down in my pants.”

  She laughed and took his hands in hers. “I’ll show you,” she said, and whirled him into the center of the dancing circle of man. The hands started clapping time to the music as the two pranced like an old married couple. Jo was smiling and Dag looked as if he were experiencing a hair-raising ride on a runaway mustang.

  Jimmy saw the two dancing, and he played a slow piece the next time around. Dag protested, mildly, when Jo held on to him, but the two looked right graceful there under the light of the moon and glow of the fire. After that, others wanted to dance with Jo and she obliged them, much to Dag’s relief. But watching her with the others made him a little green with jealousy, and he wondered again why Jo stirred up such feelings in him.

  It might have gone on like that a while longer, but the music stopped with a startling abruptness when they heard gunshots from far out on the plain. Then they heard loud shouts in English, followed by the chilling, high-pitched screeches that sounded too much like war cries.

  “Son of a bitch,” Flagg said. “Boys, strap on your irons and grab your horses. We got big trouble.”

  Jo looked at Dag with alarm; her eyes flared and got smoky with fear. Dag got up and went for his horse.

  “Felix, be careful,” she said.

  But he didn’t hear her. All he heard was the shrill, tongue-trilling cries of Comanches on the warpath. And when he got to Nero and was putting him under saddle, the horse was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

  And Dag’s stomach, when he stepped into the saddle, was swarming with flying insects feeling exactly like fear.

  Chapter 17

  The night filled with the piercing screams of Comanches in full, bloodcurdling cry. Men rode away from the remuda alone, in pairs, and in bunches. Dag rode toward the sounds, his Henry jutting from its scabbard, his .44/40 snug in its holster. Nero kept trying to turn in the opposite direction and Dag had to make him fight the bit with every tug of the reins.

  The moon cast a ghostly glow over the herd, their backs painted a dull pewter, their horns glinting pale silver. So far, the herd had not begun to stampede, but cows were bawling in terror and Dag saw that some were jostling one another as if trying to flee. His heart seemed like a lump in his throat as he rode toward the eerie sound of war songs. So far, he had heard no more shots, but he dreaded the possibility. It would not take much now to throw the cattle herd into a panic and start them running in every direction.

  He could not see much, but he kept riding, hunching over the saddle horn as if he were in a race, keeping a low profile, for when the shooting started, any stray bullet or ball could find him in the darkness.

  Then he saw a commotion up ahead, on the other side of the herd. Horses raced back and forth and beyond; a stream of Comanche ponies streaked along in a wide circle as if to surround the cowhands. It was a fine display of horsemanship that he could not help but admire, even though he knew he was watching a powerful enemy that could kill them all if their numbers were great enough.

  He heard the nighthawks yelling now, hurling insults at the Comanche.

  “Get on outta here.”

  “Yo, you red bastards.”

  “You sons of bitches, come on.”

  Dag knew what the Comanche plan was now. As he drew closer, he saw that they were riding just out of range, lifting their bows over their heads, brandishing their lances, taunting the cowhands to shoot. Well, he thought, the hands were smart enough to figure it out and he wondered who the men were who rode herd that night. He was damned proud of them for holding their fire. And he was a little bit relieved that the Comanches evidently had no pistols or rifles.

  Flagg had been smart to double the herders who were on watch. He glanced at the tail end of the herd and saw two riders. That was smart too because the Comanches could very well reverse course and run off some of those cattle while the ones at the head of the herd provided a distraction.

  He waved at the riders so that they would not think he was a Comanche, and continued toward the head of the herd, where the Indians were circling. He passed two nighthawks in the dark. He slowed his horse to a walk, then halted for a moment.

  “That you, Dag?”

  “Yeah, hold your positions.”

  “Yes, sir. Them Comanch’ just started in on us.”

  “Skip, that you?”

  “Yep. Me’n Mendoza got this flank.” Skip Hughes rode for Matlee, but he had worked on the D Slash a few summers ago. He had married Matlee’s sister, Lynne Ann, and that was why he had left to work for his brother-in-law. In summer, he wrote poetry and both he and his wife taught school—arithmetic, Dag thought. He didn’t know what Lynne Ann taught, but he thought it had to do with reading.

  “Hold your fire unless they get right on top of you, Skip. You too, Ricardo.”

  “Will do, Dag,” Skip replied and Ricardo Mendoza grunted an assent in Spanish.

  Dag rode on, staring at the Comanches rounding the cattle at the head of the herd. By now the bawling was loud and the cattle even more restless. He listened for a change in pitch that would tell him they had found a leader who would run so that they could follow. Cattle were herd animals and they followed the strongest cow or, in case of a stampede, they followed the most scared, which was often the cow just in front of them.

  “Spread out, spread out,” Flagg was saying. “Stay low and don’t shoot unless you can smell Injun breath.”

  The Comanches kept riding back and forth, teams of them going in opposite directions. It was confusing to Dag at first, but then the Comanches changed their tactics. While one bunch was going one way, another would ride in close, as if to cut a few heads out of the herd. Then these would dart back out and another group would flash in, yelling and yipping like a pack of wild dogs.

  Dag drew his pistol and backed Nero into the herd, which was milling around, bawling and snorting. He could see the fear in their roiling wide eyes as they backed away. But the horses and riders seemed to give them some comfort, as if they knew they were being protected.

  All of a sudden, the war cries died out and the Comanches changed their tactics again, riding their ponies straight at the herd so that they were within rifle range. They thrust with their horses, trying to rattle the cowhands guarding the herd. They would gallop in, turn their horses on a ten-cent piece, then dash back out. Back and forth, in small groups, the Comanches taunted the white men, calling out insults in their native tongue, screaming, yelling as they drew close, only to turn their horses with their knees at the last minute, riding off, their bodies hugging the bare backs of their ponies.

  “Don’t shoot,” Flagg said. “Pass the word.”

  Dag heard the men pass the warning all along the herd, where nervous nighthawks with itchy fingers waited, ready to shoot, wanting to shoot, but dreading a stampede almost more than they feared the Indians.

  “They sure as hell can’t keep this up all night,” Dag said.

  “The hell they can’t,” Flagg said.

  But the Comanches, after riding clear around the herd, as if looking for a weak spot so that they could run off a few head of cattle, finally drifted away into the darkness. It got so quiet, Dag felt as if he were in a huge room with all the air sucked out of it. A vacuum. Then the nighthawks started crooning to the cattle, riding slow to calm them down. After a while, the lowing and caterwauling died down and the herd started bedding down again.

  “Whew,” Dag said.

  “ ‘Whew’ is right,” Flagg said. “We almost had a real big mess here.”

  “Think they’re gone for good, Jubal?”

  “Hell, that was just their way of testing us. I reckon they’ll come up with
another idea, right soon.”

  “What do they want? Some cattle to eat?”

  “No, I reckon it’s more than that. These were warriors. They want blood. We’re on what they reckon is their land and they’re going to give us hell as long as we’re here.”

  “They didn’t have guns, anyway,” Dag said, holstering his pistol.

  “Nope, but they probably want ours.” Flagg turned away and started issuing orders. “Those of you who ain’t tendin’ herd, get on back to the chuck wagon one at a time and don’t make no noise. We’ll keep a double guard, same shifts.”

  Dag just then thought of the chuck wagon. Fingers and Jo were there, along with Jimmy and Little Jake—not much of a force if the Comanches wanted to attack and steal food. But they had ridden off to the north, in the opposite direction. Of course, he knew they could circle around. He sighed and rode gingerly past the cows around him, then turned back toward camp. He was worried.

  Who are you worried about? he asked himself, silently. But he already knew the answer. Jo. He hated to think what a band of savages like the Comanches would do to her if they ever captured her alive. He shuddered. These were not good thoughts, he knew, and he tried to drive them out of his mind.

  Jo walked out to meet Dag when he returned. “What happened?” she asked.

  “The Comanches run off, Jo.”

  “I didn’t hear any more shots.”

  “Thank God. That herd would have scattered like leaves in autumn. We’d be days trackin’ ’em all down.”

  “I was worried about you, Felix.”

  “No need.”

  “Still I worry about you.”

  He swung out of the saddle. “Jo, don’t,” he said.

  But she wasn’t listening, evidently. She came up to him and put a hand on his arm. “Felix, you know I care about you, don’t you?”

  “I reckon.”

  “Don’t you care about me?”

  Dag started to squirm inside his skin. “I care about you plenty, Jo, but not that way.”

  “What way?”

  “You know,” he said.

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “Well, I can’t rightly explain it, Jo. I got to unsaddle Nero, hobble him up for the night.”