The Omaha Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “A dozen?”

  “Maybe.”

  “We’re at least a day behind Paddy. Maybe fifteen or twenty miles, Joe. Think we ought to try and catch up with him?”

  “Concho and men sleep yonder. Flat places where beds leave track. Concho not hurry. Come, Dane. Me show you other track.”

  Dane followed Joe as he rode on a course that took them midway between where the first herd had passed and where they had seen the horse tracks.

  Joe kept looking down at the ground and then he pointed.

  “Here horse track,” he said.

  Dane saw the tracks. He followed along behind Joe as he pointed to the ground. The tracks were distinct, but also bore signs of aging over a two- or three-day period.

  “One of Concho’s men, Joe?”

  Joe shook his head and halted his horse. “Horse belong Tolliver. Harvey him scout. Him guard for Paddy.”

  “How do you know that?” Dane asked.

  “Horse stop. Horse circle herd. Horse far from herd. Know tracks. Know horse.”

  Of course, Dane thought. Joe would know the tracks of most, if not all, of the horses on his ranch and in Paddy’s remuda. Joe was a tracker. As a Cherokee youngster, he had been taught to track. He sometimes spent hours as a boy lying on his belly and watching a small section of grass. He would see which bugs came and went, what worms crossed in front of his eyes. He would watch the grass when it was covered with dew and how the blades reacted under the warming sun.

  Joe had told all this to Dane one night when both were nighthawks keeping coyotes and wild dogs away from the newborn calves. Dane had been fascinated. In the days following that night of childhood revelation, Joe had spoken more than once about the tracks of animals and people. He said he could form pictures in his mind of how large a man was, how much he weighed, and whether or not he was injured in foot or leg, and he could do the same with horses, cattle, rabbits, coyotes, quail, squirrels, and any other animals.

  “Tolliver, him look for Concho. No see. No find.”

  “You can tell all that just from the tracks you’ve shown me today?” Dane asked.

  Joe nodded.

  “Tracks tell story,” he said. “Joe see what men do from tracks on ground.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Concho far away. Concho hunt Paddy.”

  “Well, I told Paddy to send a rider back to find me if he runs into any trouble.”

  “Maybe big trouble,” Joe said.

  “Where? When?” Dane asked.

  “Joe not know. Maybe at river.”

  “What river?”

  “Big river. Deep river, maybe. Cattle stop. Paddy look for crossing. Concho pounce like big cat.”

  Dane felt a sudden chill. Up ahead was the deep fork of the Canadian. Paddy would have to hold the herd back for a time while he and his men found a ford. He had talked about it with Paddy the week before he left the Circle K. He to, knew how treacherous such a river could be.

  Maybe Concho knew that too.

  Dane asked himself a question: “How can I think like Concho? What is his plan? Does he mean to rustle the whole herd or just part of it? Will he shoot Paddy and then throw down on the drovers and make them drive the herd back to the Circle K?”

  There were so many questions that he could not answer.

  He knew Joe could not answer them either.

  “What do, Dane?” Joe asked after Dane had been silent for several seconds.

  Dane felt helpless at that moment. He waited several seconds before he answered.

  “Sometimes, Joe,” he said, “a man has to ride a trail that leads him into a dangerous place. He knows the place is there, but he can’t do anything about it until he rides up on it. Then, if there’s a mountain to climb, he climbs it. If there’s a bad river to cross, he crosses it. I can do nothing with tracks. I have to see the men who made those tracks and if they steal my cattle, I have to shoot them or hang them from a cottonwood tree.”

  Joe nodded and grunted in agreement.

  “So we go on until we run into Concho and his men.”

  “Be big fight,” Joe said.

  “I just hope he doesn’t jump Paddy and steal all my cattle in that first herd.”

  Joe made a fist and patted his chest just over the place where his heart was.

  “I pray to Great Spirit,” he said. “Pray my rifle find Concho. Make rifle speak to Concho. Concho die. Great Spirit smile.”

  “I didn’t know you were religious, Joe,” Dane said.

  Joe shook his head.

  “Not religious,” he said. “Believe in Great Spirit.”

  “To a white man that sounds like religion.”

  “No. White man have God. Cherokee have Spirit. Not same.”

  “You may be right, Joe.”

  They waited there in the sunlight until they saw the lead cattle in the herd come into view. Crowell waved to them. They waved back and then started their horses.

  The sun was arcing down the slope of the western sky, and their shadows were stretching toward the east. There was nothing to see but prairie and green grass.

  And, of course, they saw the dancing mirrors of mirages in the distance and the ghosts of menacing men appear and disappear like wraiths in the daylight.

  Chapter 25

  Concho watched through his binoculars as the herd started moving toward the river. The drovers hollered and waved their hats to bunch them up into a tighter column. The wagons stood at rest behind the herd, but he saw Tolliver, riding drag, pack the rear of the herd just by letting his cutting horse range back and forth on the rear.

  With him were Lem and Randy. The other men were up ahead, scouting a ford that would let them swim their horses across or wade them in a more benevolent current. One of them would wait on this side to guide them to the ford when they were finished with their business.

  Concho drew his rifle from its scabbard. It was a Winchester ’73 lever-action .44/40.

  Sunlight glanced off the polished bluing of the barrel and the cherry-wood stock. Concho had it custom-made in Santa Fe soon after he had bought it. The stock had been replaced and his first name etched into the metal on one side of the receiver.

  “You know, Lem,” he said, “I got this rifle sighted in at twenty-five yards.”

  “So you goin’ to ride that close to shoot that Tolliver?”

  “No. Don’t have to. You sight a rifle like this in at twenty-five yards and it’s sighted in at a hundred yards.”

  “I never knew that,” Lem said.

  “Well, it’s a fact.”

  “So, can you measure out a hunnert yards with your eyes, Concho?”

  “Pretty much. I practiced shootin’ at several yardages and got so I could measure distance pretty damned well.”

  “Want me to back you up?”

  “Only if you see me miss, Lem.”

  Concho turned to look at Randy. “You stay here, Randy boy. Just watch and see if any of them drovers spot my smoke and start ridin’ this way. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Randy said.

  “You holler if any of ’em even look like they mean to chase us.”

  “I’ll yell real loud,” Randy said.

  They all sat there on their horses and watched the slow-moving herd. Then they saw the chuck wagon move and turn to round the right flank. Next, the supply wagon followed the same course. The Mexican wrangler followed the wagons with the horses. They all moved faster than the herd.

  “They don’t have to eat no dust thataway,” Lem observed.

  “That’s just perfect for me,” Concho said.

  “What’re you going to do, Concho?” Lem asked.

  “You and me are going to ride up way behind the rear of the herd and when we get close enough, we’ll stop and I’ll lay my sights on Tolliver.”

  “You don’t think he’ll see us?”

  “By the time we get close enough for him to see us, it will be too late for him.”

  “Okay.”

&
nbsp; “Look at him,” Concho said. “He’s got his eyes on those cows and ain’t lookin’ no place else.”

  “Sounds like you got it figgered all right,” Lem said.

  “Tell you somethin’, Lem. Listen real close.”

  “Go ahead,” Lem said.

  “When I go to kill a man, I do it all up here.” Concho pointed to his head. “I play it all out in my mind. Every move. Every move I’m gonna make. Every move the man I’m going to jump might make. That way, when I get to it, I don’t make no mistakes. I’ve already played it all out in my head.”

  “Hmm,” Lem murmured.

  “I done played this one out already. Just look at the way that herd’s a-movin’ and watch them wagons and the drovers on the flanks.

  “Yeah, I see ’em.”

  “As the herd gets closer to the river, they’re all leavin’ poor old Tolliver way in the rear. In a little while, most of the herd will be alongside the Canadian, or crossin’ downstream. Then Tolliver will be all by his lonesome and nobody up front is even goin’ to see him fall out of his saddle.”

  “You’re pretty smart, Concho. I’ll give you that.”

  “Damned right I’m smart. Smarter than any of them drovers or the trail boss, that poor Mick.”

  Lem said nothing as they continued to watch.

  Randy wanted to drink from his canteen. His throat and mouth were dry and he could feel his lips cracking from a lack of moisture. Yet he dared not move. They were a long way from the herd and shielded by trees, but every time Tolliver turned his horse toward them, he jumped inside his skin.

  Finally Concho gave the order.

  “Let’s move. Randy, you stay put. Keep your eyes open.”

  “I will,” Randy croaked.

  He watched as Lem and Concho rode in a straight line until they were almost out of sight. Then he saw their bobbing heads as they rode toward the herd in another straight line.

  When his heart was firmly lodged in his throat, he saw Concho ride toward the rear of the herd. Lem was right behind him.

  He looked for the wagons and the horses, but they were now out of sight.

  He saw only one drover waving his hat at the herd, and then he too rounded the corner of the herd and Randy didn’t see him any longer.

  Concho and Lem closed the gap and then Randy saw them both stop.

  He watched as Concho brought his rifle up to his shoulder. He saw the barrel move from side to side. Concho was hunched slightly, peering down the barrel.

  Randy’s gaze shifted to Tolliver.

  It was just the way Concho had said it would be. Harvey was concentrating on the rear of the herd, whopping the rumps of cattle to keep them moving and bunched up. He had his hands full and had no idea that a rifle was pointed at him.

  Then Tolliver, perhaps feeling that he was being watched, turned his horse and looked back to where Concho and Lem were sitting their horses right out in the open.

  Randy wanted to scream a warning.

  Instead, he held his breath.

  The rifle cracked. It sounded like a bullwhip. He saw the orange flame spew from the barrel, and then a white puff of smoke billowed from the muzzle and floated back on Concho and Lem.

  Randy shifted his eyes to look at Tolliver.

  Tolliver grabbed his chest. Clawed at it as if it had filled suddenly with sharp thorns.

  Blood spurted from a hole in the center of Tolliver’s breastbone. He tumbled sideways out of the saddle. When he hit the ground, his hat crumpled and came off, rolled a few inches, then wobbled to rest.

  The cows at the rear turned their heads at the noise of the man falling. Tolliver’s horse skittered away, its reins dragging along the grassy ground. Then it stopped, stared at the body of its rider, its ears twitching and turning in a hundred-and-eighty-degree plane, twin cones atop a bobbing head.

  Concho rammed his rifle back in its scabbard. He and Lem spurred their horses, slapped them with their reins, and made a beeline for where Randy was waiting. Concho motioned for him to move north.

  Randy turned his horse and started out, leaving the hillock and the shielding trees. His heart was still in his throat and his chest felt as if it were wearing a heavy iron plate.

  Tolliver was dead. Randy knew that.

  In the distance he heard muffled shouts, but he did not look.

  Soon Concho and Lem caught up with him.

  “Let’s ride, kid,” Concho said to him, and galloped away.

  Randy kept up with Lem and Concho, but just barely. They were really moving fast. He felt light-headed and dizzy.

  It seemed to Randy that he was in a dream, that what had just happened wasn’t real.

  Yet he could still see Tolliver raking his hands over his chest that was spurting blood and falling to the ground.

  The bile rose in Randy’s throat and he leaned away from his horse and vomited. But the sickness was still in him. His stomach still roiled with the half-digested hardtack and jerky.

  He stayed in the saddle, but Concho and Lem were blurred as his eyes filled with tears and his stomach boiled over again until he heaved the rest of its contents in a yellowish-brown stream that splattered his horse’s hooves and left a streak on the grass.

  His throat constricted and burned.

  His mind screamed silent insults at Concho.

  Damn you, he thought. Damn you, Concho, to hell.

  Then they were at the river and Randy wiped his sleeve across his mouth, gulped air to hold down the rancid ooze that threatened to erupt once again.

  Mitch was waiting for them.

  “Heard your shot, Concho,” he said. “Get him?”

  “What do you think, Mitch?” Concho gruffed. “Damned right I got him.”

  “Thought so,” Mitch said, and turned his horse toward the fording place.

  Randy slumped in the saddle. He didn’t want to cross the river. He wanted to turn his horse and ride straight back to Shawnee Mission.

  He never wanted to see Concho again.

  But he couldn’t run.

  He knew Concho would drop him the same way he had dropped Tolliver.

  The man was a killer and now Randy hated him as he had never hated another.

  He hated Concho, yes.

  And, finally, he hated himself.

  Chapter 26

  The cattle at the rear of the first herd lunged and scrambled to get away from the dead man and his skittery horse. They fanned out and broke from the herd to seek safer quarters.

  Up at the river, Chub Toomey heard the crack of the rifle and rode out to look back down at the shrinking line of cattle.

  He saw the cattle scatter and knew something was wrong.

  He called over to Steve Atkins, who was turning the herd toward the crossing place.

  “Steve,” he yelled, “get somebody to ride to the rear of the herd. Cattle are streamin’ all over. I don’t see Harve nowhere.”

  Steve reined his horse into a tight turn and hollered to Cal Ferris, “Watch ’em, Cal. I’m goin’ back to see what’s goin’ on with Harve.”

  Cal nodded and touched a finger to the brim of his hat. He watched as Steve galloped away, right on the heels of Chub. He rode over to where the cattle were turning and made sure that none of them jumped out and headed for the river where it was deep and running swift.

  “What in hell’s goin’ on back there?” Paddy yelled from the other side of the bank. Whit Hawkins was sitting his horse in midstream beyond the sandbank in case any cattle broke and headed his way. He had already turned three or four back by waving his hat at them and cursing a blue streak.

  “Damned if I know, Paddy,” Whit said. “Some kind of ruckus at the tail end of the herd, I think.”

  “I thought I heard a shot,” Paddy said. “Like a rifle shot.”

  “Me too,” Whit said.

  Cattle sloshed across the ford and clambered up on the opposite bank where drovers kept them moving out of the way. As the leaders widened the distance, Bill and Lester began to bu
nch them up so that they didn’t wander too far from the remainder of the herd.

  Paddy was pleased with the way the cattle were taking to the water. They had good footing and the water wasn’t too deep where they crossed. Some tried to stay on the sandbar, out of fear, he supposed, but Whit was shooing them on the rest of the way.

  Now, though, there was some kind of fuss at the tail end of the herd, or so it seemed. He knew that Harve was riding drag and he was an experienced hand with a good cutting horse. The drive should have gone smoothly at that point. He wondered if one of the hands had shot at something and spooked the herd. He hoped that was all it was. And if someone had been fool enough to shoot at a jackrabbit or rattlesnake, that man was in for a good ass-chewing. He had given strict orders not to fire their weapons unless they were attacked by Indians or rustlers. There were no farms right close, so he didn’t think some farmer was responsible.

  He heard distant shouts and couldn’t make out who was yelling or what they were saying.

  “Can you make any of that out, Whit?” Paddy asked.

  Whit shook his head. “Maybe one of the boys is yellin’ at the cows what strayed from the herd.”

  “Could be,” Paddy said.

  But he doubted it. It sounded to him as if one or two of the hands were in trouble, or they were just trying to scare cattle back into the herd.

  He waited and listened.

  “Son of a bitch,” Whit exclaimed. He was staring upriver. “Here comes Steve, a-ridin’ hell-for-leather.”

  Paddy saw Steve. He was riding straight toward the ford, whipping his horse at a gallop, the brim of his hat flattened from the wind his horse had created.

  He reined up just on the other side of the turning herd.

  “You better come quick, Paddy,” Steve yelled across the river. “We got puredee hell to pay.”

  “What’s wrong?” Paddy yelled.

  “Somebody shot Harve. He’s plumb dead. Come quick.”

  Paddy wasted no time. He spurred his horse into the river and splashed across. “Watch ’em, Whit. I’ll be back soon as I can.”

  “Don’t worry, Paddy,” Whit said. “Most of ’em have done crossed.”

  Paddy rode around the herd and joined up with Steve.