The Palo Duro Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Don’t keep running away, Felix.”

  “I ain’t runnin’ from nothin’, Jo.”

  She laughed. “Like a rabbit,” she said. “I’ll help you unsaddle Nero.”

  “Jo, I don’t need no help.” He paused, softening. “But you can tag along if you like.”

  “I like,” she said and squeezed his arm with her hand.

  They walked back from the remuda together. Dag’s thoughts raced. He felt all mixed up. Truth was, he liked Jo’s company. And he admitted to himself that he was flattered by her interest in him and her attentions. She did special little things when she thought no one was paying much attention, a touch on his back or his shoulder at chow, giving him an extra spoonful of blackberry jelly or honey for his biscuits. Brief smiles and sometimes, a wink.

  Now, in the darkness, he looked at her. Her mouth was like a small rose in the firelight when they got back to camp.

  “You want some coffee, Felix?” she asked.

  “Naw, my heart’s pumpin’ fast as it is.”

  “Because of the Comanches?” she said. “Or do I do that to you?”

  “Jo, you are a bold woman—that’s for danged sure.”

  “You think so, Felix? Heck, I haven’t even shown you my bold side.” She laughed, but what she said tugged at his heart.

  “Spare me,” he joked.

  She took his arm in hers, squeezed him close to her. Fingers was sitting by the fire, smoking a last pipe before turning in. Cowhands were sprawled in a wide circle some distance from the chuck wagon, rifles at their sides, pistols close at hand. One man was snoring.

  “I might take pity on you, Felix, and spare you my embarrassing boldness. I might.” She squeezed his arm again and he felt a thrilling ripple of pleasure course through him like a velvety shot of electricity.

  “I’m going to turn in, Jo. Uh, thanks for walkin’ with me—ah, coming out with me, I mean.”

  “I know what you mean,” she said and turned to face him, releasing her hold on his arm. Then she put her hands on his shoulders and stood on tiptoe. She pecked him on the lips with that red bud of a mouth of hers, then danced away.

  “Good night,” she said. “Sleep tight. Pleasant dreams.”

  Dag stood there, speechless, his lips burning as if they had been brushed lightly with stinging nettles—or touched by a sudden, searing fire that was beyond understanding and like nothing he had ever felt before.

  Chapter 18

  Flagg rode well ahead of the herd, scouting the best terrain, the best grass, and the fewest chances of ambush by marauding Indians. Dag rode beside him, both of them setting the pace for the chuck wagon, which had been taking the lead for several weeks. Flagg had kept it in the rear for some days because of the way the herd acted after leaving the home range. Cattle fought to return for at least three days, and this herd, because it had grown so much, had been especially hard to handle. Now it had to follow the pace of the chuck wagon so that they wouldn’t lose time when it came to the drovers and mealtimes. The noon meal was served when the sun was straight up, and supper at sundown. Period.

  Over the past weeks, Flagg had slowed the drive down considerably so that they could trail brand the cattle they now had, which numbered close to thirty-three hundred head. The trail brands were used to identify the herd in case it got mixed in with another. Flagg had chosen the brand, which was placed on the right hip of their cattle. It was the QC, which stood for Quitaque-Cheyenne.

  “Somebody’s coming,” Dag said, pointing ahead. “Can’t make out who it is, friend or foe.”

  Flagg looked at the two specks on the horizon. They were riding over a vast island of grass and the herd was fattening up, moving slow, behind them.

  “Friend, I’d say,” Flagg said. “They ain’t movin’ fast and they’re headed straight for us.”

  “Tall horses,” Dag said. “Not ponies.”

  “You’re gettin’ good at this, Felix,” Flagg said. “Them weeks ridin’ swing and flank and drag didn’t do you no harm.”

  Dag laughed. “I rode point too.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  The point riders were on either side of the herd at the front. They saw to it that the lead steer, which had replaced the cow that started out in that position, stayed on course and kept moving. About a third of the way behind them rode the swing riders, and back another third were the flank riders. The drag riders brought up the rear of the herd and were responsible for turning any cattle that tried to go back to the home range or anywhere else they weren’t supposed to go.

  Dagstaff and Flagg kept riding toward the two approaching riders. When the two strangers got close, Dag saw that they were cowmen. The lariats hanging from their saddles looked well worn, and they had that look about them: dusty, battered hats, wind- and sun-weathered faces, and dirt-caked lines around their mouths.

  “Howdy,” one of the men said, the taller of the two. “I’m Paul Gustafsen, and this is my segundo, Dave Franklin. We’re from the Double C spread, just a stone’s chunk from here. Folks call me Gus.”

  “I’m Jubal Flagg, the trail boss, and this is the rancher who hired me, Felix Dagstaff. We call him Dag, among other things.”

  Gus laughed. “I saw your dust,” he said, “wondered if you boys would like to drive some of my herd to the railhead. You headed for Abilene?”

  “No,” Dag said, “farther west and north. Better money.”

  “Smoke?” Dave said, pulling the makings from his pocket.

  “Sure,” Dag said, extending his hand out for the sack of tobacco.

  “I’ll cut me a chaw,” Flagg said, digging out a twist from his shirt pocket.

  Dag rolled a cigarette, wet it down with his spit, and handed the sack back to Gus, who rolled one and handed the sack to Franklin. Dag lit their cigarettes, then his, while Flagg stuffed a cut-off chunk of tobacco into his mouth, folded up his Barlow pocketknife, and put it away.

  “Good market for beef where you’re goin’?” Gus asked, a casual tone to his voice.

  “Fair to middlin’,” Dag said.

  “Are you full up, or could you drive some of my herd up to wherever you’re goin’?”

  “How many head?” Flagg asked. He was still the trail boss, and this concerned him as much as it did Dag.

  “Oh, maybe seven hunnert or so. I been waitin’ for a drive to come this way. You’re the first I’ve seen all spring.”

  “What kind of price are you lookin’ for?” Dag asked, not wanting to appear too eager. Gus, though, just might be the answer to his prayers. Outlaw cattle were scarce in these parts.

  “Oh, I’d be right satisfied with anything over fifteen dollars a head,” Gus said.

  Dag’s eyebrows arched. He couldn’t help it. Maybe dreams did come true. He looked at Flagg, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “We could maybe do a mite better than that, Gus,” Dag said. “How many hands can you put with us?”

  “Only a couple. That be enough?”

  “We have plenty of drovers,” Flagg said. “Two men would work just fine, I reckon.”

  Gus smiled. So did Dave.

  “We could maybe put twenty or twenty-five greenbacks in your hand for each head that finished the drive,” Dag said. “That do?”

  “That would be just fine—uh, Dag, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wish I could go with you. But we’ve had Comanche trouble round here lately. That’s one reason I want to thin my herd.”

  The three men with quirlys smoked. Flagg chewed and spat.

  “You got water on your spread for my herd?” Flagg asked. “We could maybe bed down there tonight and trail brand your seven hunnert head.”

  “I got a big lake and the spring rains have kept the water high, up to the brim.”

  “Let’s shake on it,” Dag said. He and Gus shook hands.

  “We’ll ride along with you,” Gus said, “show you my lake. How many head you driving?”

  Dag told him. Gus whistled in s
urprise.

  “Boy,” he said, “that’s a goodly number, all right.”

  “Mex cattle,” Flagg said. “They fatten up on the hoof.”

  “So you’re not going to the railhead in Kansas,” Gus said.

  “Cheyenne,” Dag said. “We’ll get a better price up yonder. Guaranteed.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  They passed the chuck wagon and all waved at Fingers and Jo as they passed. Dag saw a questioning look on Jo’s face, but he only smiled. It would be something to talk about that night, he mused. Another good excuse to spend time with her, while he mentally kicked himself for his disloyalty to Laura and his infatuation with Jo Finnerty.

  The ride took an hour and a half before they were on Double C land. Gus made a slight turn over gently rolling land. A pair of mourning doves knifed through the sky on whistling wings, and quail piped somewhere out of sight. They topped a rise and Dag’s eyes widened at what he saw.

  There, before them, stood a large lake, perhaps ten or fifteen acres in size, and beyond, and surrounding it, a fine carpeting of grass that looked to be bluestem mixed in with other types that he couldn’t identify.

  “You’ve got quite a spread here, Gus,” Dag said. “Where’d you get that seed?”

  “Some imported from Kentucky, some from England, some from Africa. I’m thinkin’ about mix-breeding my cattle too, maybe gettin’ some British breeds in here, Herefords and such. I heard you could cross-breed ’em with longhorns and get cattle with a larger frame, more beef on the hoof.”

  “I wish you good luck,” Dag said.

  “You might want to think about it yourself, down the road.”

  “I will.”

  “Let’s ride on up to the cattle I’d like you to drive for me and I’ll introduce you to the drovers I’ll send along with you.”

  They rode around the lake, through more fields where cattle ranged. Gus had done a lot of land clearing, yet it seemed all groomed. He had left brush and trees for game cover, and each pasture had at least one tank, large watering holes. The cattle Dagstaff and Flagg saw all looked healthy and fat.

  The ranch house was surrounded by out buildings. There were a stable, a barn, several corrals, horses grazing in a nearby pasture, a bunkhouse, and a smokehouse. The house itself was a frame dwelling that had been added to over the years with what looked to Dag like whipsawed lumber. There were even froed shingles on the roof, which surprised him. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to build such a place.

  The men tied up their horses to a hitchrail in front of the house.

  “Come on in,” Gus said.

  Dag looked at Flagg. They were both filthy, their clothes soaked with grease and caked with dust, their boots smelling of cowshit and horse dung.

  “Ah,” Dag said, “maybe Jubal and I should just sit out on your porch. We ain’t had a proper bath in some time and we got our trail duds on.”

  “Suit yourself,” Gus said. “I’ll have the missus bring us some hot coffee, or we got tea. No ice though, but she keeps it in an olla in the shade, so it stays right cool.”

  “Maybe tea,” Flagg said, the wrinkle of a smile on his lips. “We ain’t had no tea in many a moon.”

  “Yeah, tea,” Dag said, his mouth starting to water. It would be a change from Fingers’ coffee, which was thick enough to float nails in.

  There was a swing on the porch and several chairs. Dave sat down and took off his hat. He waved Dag and Jubal to chairs.

  “Feels good to get out of the heat,” Dave said. “You boys come a long ways?”

  Flagg sat down, then got up again, walked to the porch railing, and spat out a chewed wad of tobacco. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and rubbed his brown teeth.

  “Yeah, it’s been a ride,” Dag said.

  “Any trouble?”

  “Comanches one night.”

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “Naw, they run off. They had only bows and arrows, lances. Testing us, I think.”

  “Well, them savages is mighty patient sometimes. We run ’em off here all the time. Kiowas too. Sometimes Apaches. From here to the Red you better keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Dag said, as Flagg sat down.

  Gus came back out onto the porch and sat down in a chair.

  “The missus will be right out with the tea. She gets it from a mercantile up in Amarillo.”

  “We must be getting close to that town,” Dag said.

  “Another two to three weeks driving, maybe,” Gus said. “Our boys make it in three or four days.”

  A woman came out of the house carrying a tray with a sugar bowl and spoon and four jelly glasses gleaming amber in the sun. She handed a glass to each of the men.

  “I’m Janet,” she said. “But, everybody calls me Jan. There’s sugar here if you’ve got a sweet tooth.” She was a petite, dark-haired woman with a warm smile.

  “Thanks, Jan,” Gus said. “Just set the tray on that little table there.”

  Janet left the tray and went back into the house.

  “Tastes good,” Dag said, after taking a sip of tea.

  Flagg was spooning sugar into his. “Say, how’d you know we were headed this way?” Flagg asked. “Been curious about that. Did your hands spot our chuck wagon?”

  “As a matter of fact, no,” Gus said. “Feller come through here, oh a week ago, I reckon, and said they was a big herd comin’ up our way.”

  Flagg sat up straight. “Did the feller have a name?” he asked.

  “Said his name was Horton. Don Horton, wasn’t it, Dave?”

  “Yep, that’s the name.”

  Dag shot a look at Jubal, his eyes glittering with alarm. He had almost forgotten about Horton in the past few weeks. He wondered what the man was up to, and why he had told Gus about the herd. Suddenly, all his feelings about the man boiled up in his mind and he knew that, sooner or later, Horton would show up again. A lot closer, maybe, the next time.

  Chapter 19

  There was a long moment of silence on the porch, as if time had suddenly stopped dead still.

  “You know the man?” Gus asked.

  Flagg recovered more quickly than Dag. “He’s one of our drovers,” Flagg said, “off scouting.”

  “Well, he gave me the idea to ask you to drive my cattle up north with you. The money will allow me to buy some English stock for cross-breeding.”

  “I’d better get back to the herd,” Flagg said, finishing off his tea and standing up. “Please tell the missus how much I liked her tea on a hot afternoon.”

  A slight breeze stirred the two hanging plants that were suspended from the ceiling on small chains. They exuded the faint aroma of lilacs.

  Flagg shook hands with Gus and Dave. “You can stay here if you like, Dag.”

  “I’ll go with you, Jubal. I think we’re finished here.” He turned to Gus. “Have your herd ready when we pass through, Gus. I’ll take care of the rest. Handshake?”

  “Sure, Felix.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “All of your stock branded?” Flagg asked.

  “Yep, ever’ head.”

  “We’ll trail brand ’em before we turn ’em into the herd.”

  “My hands can help with that.”

  “No need.”

  “When we come out, I’ll bring the two hands I’m sending with the herd. You’ll meet ’em then.”

  Felix and Jubal rode off, heading back the way they had come. Neither spoke until they were well away from ranch headquarters. They saw riders, who waved at them. They waved back. Doves coursed the sky, in pairs, darting past in swift undulating wing strokes, whistling softly.

  “All right, Jubal,” Dag said, “what do you make of Horton bein’ up here at the Double C?”

  “It don’t make a whole lot of sense, I reckon.”

  “He ever been up this way before?” Dag asked.

  “Why, he grew up around Amarillo. I think his pa had a spread on the salt fork of the R
ed, matter of fact.”

  “So he knows the country.”

  “Pretty much.”

  Dag mulled over in his mind what he knew, what he suspected. He was pretty sure that Horton had tried to kill him once. And then he had left suddenly. Now his track had shown up here. He was heading north, toward the Red River. Why? Was he waiting somewhere up ahead in ambush? At some place where he had the advantage of concealment and surprise? How did a man protect himself against a drygulcher like that?

  As they rode, Dag’s scalp prickled and he began to look around as if expecting to see Horton materialize over the horizon at any moment. He wondered why Horton wanted to kill him. But it didn’t take a big stretch of the imagination to see who would benefit from his death: Deutsch.

  Flagg broke into Dag’s reverie. “Did you know, Dag, that most trail bosses don’t let the drovers bring their own horses to the remuda, like we did?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Yep. It’s kind of like a guarantee, you know?”

  “A guarantee? Of what?”

  “Well, not only that we have good horses suited for such purposes, but if a drover deserts the herd, as some do, then he’s guilty of a crime. He’s a thief.”

  “Hm. I never knew that,” Dag said.

  “You know. Cowhands get to a town after being months on the trail and some of ’em get real drunk and raise hell. Sometimes a man will meet a gal that he thinks is the most beautiful and saintly female on earth. Most often she’s some whore he met in a saloon, and in the dark, with all that paint, she looks like Cleopatra. So he’ll stay behind, sell the horse he’s on, and get married. If he survives that, when the trail boss and the other drovers come back through the town, they find the deserter and hang him for a damned horsethief.”

  “What’s the point, Dag? Horton brought his own horse.”

  “Yeah, he did. He rode his own horse, but if you noticed, whenever he went out lookin’ for outlaws, he always took one of the horses in Jimmy’s remuda.”

  “I didn’t notice, no.”

  “Well, when he lit a shuck from the herd, he wasn’t straddlin’ his own horse.”