“Is the herd pretty spread out, Logan?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’d say it’s strung out for a mile or two and ain’t nobody chasin’ ’em. Out riders are just keepin’ an eye out on the flank, like they was out for a Sunday ride.”
“That’s good for us,” Concho said.
“How do you figger on gettin’ them beeves and drivin’ off the drovers?” Mitch asked Concho.
“We ride up in a bunch and count outriders that are closest to us. Then we fan out and start shootin’. If we have to drop a horse or two, that’s just fine. Get ’em on foot and we can mow ’em down like wheat.”
“Rifles?” Skip asked.
“First shots from our rifles,” Concho said. “Then we go in close with six-guns and shoot anything that moves.”
“There’s some Mexes wranglin’ the horses and now they got two chuck wagons and two supply wagons,” Heckler said. “Wagons ain’t movin’.”
“Perfect,” Concho said.
“It’s goin’ to be like a turkey shoot,” Lyle said, licking his lips. He finished his coffee and shook out his cup. He placed it in one of his saddlebags, then hefted it and slung it on the back of his horse.
“We got enough bullets in our six-guns to drop quite a few of them boys,” Mitch said.
“They won’t be expectin’ us, that’s for sure,” Lyle said.
“Logan, did them hands look like they was watchin’ out for trouble?” Skip asked.
“Hell no. They looked like they was just enjoyin’ the sunshine and acted like they was back on that ranch.”
Concho got to his feet.
“Let’s ride,” he said. He shook out his cup and stowed it in his saddlebag, which was still draped over his horse’s backside.
Heckler walked over. He lifted the field glass from around his neck and handed it to Concho. “Anybody see you, Logan?”
“No, I don’t reckon. I tied my horse up and sneaked along an old furrow, all hunched over like a beggar. I could see everything real good with that glass. I sneaked back and rode off. I was way out of sight when I got back on my horse.”
“All right.” Concho climbed into the saddle and began issuing last-minute orders. “Check your rifles. Jack a shell in the chamber and leave your gun on half cock. Make sure your six-guns have all the beans in their chambers. Get your pissin’ done now.”
There were the clicks of rifle mechanisms as the men chambered fresh rounds into the firing chambers of their rifles and the whir of six-gun cylinders as they checked the loads in the pistols. Leather creaked as the men mounted their horses. Then the whisper of leather reins and the jingle of roweled spurs.
Concho watched as the men lined up behind him. They all sat and waited until he gave the signal. Satisfied, Concho raised one arm and swung it forward. Then he touched spurs to his horse’s flanks and they rode in a procession toward the Caney River.
Men adjusted their hats, and shadows floated onto their grim faces. The sun smiled down on them, and the sweet scent of grass inched into their nostrils.
It was, Concho thought, a perfect day.
It was a day when nothing could go wrong for him and his men.
It was a good day to kill cowboys and rustle a large herd of cattle.
Chapter 41
Someone had seen Logan Heckler when he surveyed the herd that day.
Joe Eagle climbed down from the large oak tree where he had been perched all morning. He didn’t need a field glass to see the rider sneak up to a spot and dismount, then walk toward the herd with a pair of binoculars dangling from his neck.
Joe saw the man lie down and put the glass to his eyes. He saw him crawl back for a ways, then walk to his horse and ride off to the east.
Dane waited for Joe to walk up to him.
“Man come. Man watch herd long time. Man ride away.”
“So Concho knows we’re here,” Dane said.
“Him know.”
“All right, Joe, get on your horse. I’m going to tell Paddy and Len what I want them to do. You’ll be with me.”
Dane whistled. He put two fingers in his mouth and blew on them. The whistle was loud and piercing.
“That’s the signal, Len,” Paddy said. “We talk to Dane and find out what his plan be.”
“I’m as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rockin’ chairs,” Len said.
The two men rode down the line of cattle to where Joe and Dane were waiting. They dismounted and stepped in close.
“Paddy, Len,” Dane said. “Here’s what I want you to do. Line up all your men behind the herd at fifty-yard intervals. River at your backs. When I see Concho and his men ride into sight, I’ll give one whistle. Your men will have their rifles loaded and cocked. I want all the rifles to go off at one time. One loud roar.”
“Dane, that’ll spook the cattle,” Len said. “They’ll stampede for sure.”
“I want ’em to stampede, Len. When the cattle start runnin’, the drovers will make sure they head east, away from the river. All of the men will follow and keep shooting their rifles.”
“You goin’ to run right over Concho and his men?” Paddy asked.
“Yes, but tell your men to shoot any of those rustlers within range. I figure they’ll be too busy gettin’ out of the way of all these cattle to do much accurate shooting at us.”
“Pretty bold, if you ask me,” Paddy said.
“I don’t want to lose any hands or any cattle. If Concho means to rustle what we’ve got here, I want to run him down and trample him to death. Joe and I will be looking for targets and chasing cows their way.”
“All right,” Len said. “Your plan just might work.”
“It will work if we all do what I ask. At my signal start shooting. Run the cattle as fast as they’ll run and don’t let anyone pass through the stampeding herd. If Concho starts shooting, he might be trying to drive them all back on us.”
“Jaysus,” Paddy said, “it’s goin’ to be pure hell out there.”
“I hope so,” Dane said. “Now get your men ready and wait for my whistle.”
Paddy rode up the line to the north while Len rode along the river to the south.
“Let’s get on our horses, Joe. Before all this starts, I want to make sure Wu and Barney get behind their wagons and aim their rifles to the east.”
“Horses,” Joe said.
“I’ll tell the wranglers to take them over by the river, into the trees. No use putting any of them in danger.”
They walked to their horses and climbed into their saddles. They rode to Wu’s wagon.
“There’s going to be some loud noise, Wu,” Dane said. “And lots of lead flying. You get behind your wagon. Make sure your rifle is pointed away from the river. If anyone you don’t recognize rides up, you shoot that man dead.”
“Uh-huh,” Wu said.
Dane told Barney the same thing and he told the Mexicans to hide the horses in the trees along the river.
“Will we get to go on the charge?” Montoya asked. “I want a crack at Concho.”
“If you hurry, you can chase cattle right over them rustlin’ bastards,” Dane said. “Just make sure you fire your rifles when I give the signal. I want to hear just one loud roar. And I want to see three thousand head of cattle running at full speed right over Concho and his bunch.”
The Mexicans all grinned and started leading the horses back into the trees along the Caney.
Joe and Dane took up positions at about the middle of the herd. They watched as Paddy called in the flankers. Len did the same on his end. Soon, when they looked, they saw men on horseback holding their rifles at attention up and down the line. They looked like guerilla cavalry waiting for the order to charge.
Dane wondered how long they would have to wait. He looked up at the sun and saw that it was almost directly overhead. The cattle grazed peacefully on the lush tall grass.
“Can you see far enough, Joe, to spot any riders comin’ over the horizon?”
“See long
way,” Joe said. “Me look.”
The minutes dragged by and the plain beyond the cattle herd seemed devoid of all life. It was agony, the waiting, but Dane was ready. He wet two fingers of his right hand and held them close to his mouth.
A cloud passed over the sun’s bright face and cast a large shadow on the prairie.
For a moment, Dane stiffened, wondering if he would be able to see anyone riding through that shadow.
Then Reno’s ears stiffened as the horse stared into the distance. Dane looked at Joe. Joe stood up in his stirrups, the flat of his hand shading his eyes.
Dane gripped the lever and the stock of his Winchester. His hand began to sweat. His rifle was cocked, like Joe’s, and it would take only seconds to bring it to his shoulder, slip a finger into the trigger guard, and squeeze the trigger.
After he whistled, he thought.
His fingers were poised to slip into his mouth.
Joe continued to stare past the cloud shadow. His horse whickered softly and its ears began to twist and twitch.
“Men come,” Joe said. “Blow whistle.”
Dane put the two fingers into his mouth and laid his tongue under them. He blew a single long ear-lancing whistle.
Time seemed to hang suspended for an eternity. There was a silence for a split second that seemed as deep as the eternal sea, a silence that was almost deafening.
Then all hell broke loose.
Chapter 42
More than a dozen rifles cracked the eerie stillness. Men shouted and cattle heads jerked up as if the cows had been lashed with three thousand bullwhips.
A moment later, the first cow bolted from the herd. It was followed by others. There was the sound of tramping hooves, and the grazing cattle flowed eastward, straight at the column of men led by Concho Larabee. The outlaws fanned out and began to shoulder their rifles.
More rifle fire crackled as the cowhands jacked shells into their chambers and fired again. The second time, they did not shoot straight up into the air, but started to aim at the approaching riders.
Bullets whistled past Concho and his men as they scattered. They began to yell too.
“Lord, would you look at that?”
“Holy cow, a damned stampede.”
“Shoot ’em, boys,” Concho yelled. “Turn that herd back.”
Dane glanced at Joe. “Let’s get after them,” he shouted above the din.
They both spurred their horses and charged into the scrambling herd, forcing their horses to part a path through the herd.
Dane saw Concho’s men gallop their horses to avoid being overrun by the cattle, but he knew they would not make it. The herd was too wide and coming at them with such speed that their plight was a foregone conclusion.
The other cowhands charged into the herd and forged pathways through the herd. They fired their rifles at the rustlers, but it was difficult to take direct aim and their shots missed hitting any targets during that initial charge.
Some of Concho’s men turned their horses and began to retreat. All of them had given up trying to shoot their rifles. They sheathed their long guns and drew pistols. They fired at the onrushing cattle and began to drop a few.
The herd bellowed and chased after the lead cow and swallowed her up in their fear-filled rush away from the exploding rifles at their rear.
Dane looked toward his right and swung his right arm to signal Paddy to turn the herd. Then he looked to his left and yelled at Len. He made the same gesture. Both men nodded and began to race ahead of the surging cattle and turn them inward.
Both flanks of the herd started to crowd inward in Dane’s attempt to cut the rustlers off and corral them with cattle on both sides.
Concho turned his horse and realized he could not outrun the storm of cattle that was descending on him and his men. Bullets whizzed overhead and past his ear. He yelled at the men on both sides of him. “Don’t run,” he shouted. “Start shootin’ to kill them cowboys.”
He swung around in his saddle and took aim on a cow with his six-gun. He fired at it, saw the bullet strike it in the belly. Dust flew up where the bullet entered the body of the cow, but she kept running in a zigzag course as if nothing had happened. Blood streamed from the wound and still she ran, weaving on unsteady legs.
Concho fired again, aiming straight at its head, just below the boss. The bullet ricocheted off the thick ridge of bone and whined off into empty space.
He saw Will Davis out of the corner of his eye. Will was shooting at a phalanx of onrushing horned beasts. Then he saw a man aim his pistol at Davis from thirty yards away. The man looked like an Indian, with swarthy skin and black eyes.
Joe Eagle squeezed the trigger of his Colt and the pistol exploded, belching sparks and smoke.
Will clutched his chest, and his fingers turned red with blood. He slumped forward in the saddle; then a lone steer swung toward him and struck his horse’s left foreleg. The leg snapped with a loud crackle of the bones, and the animal collapsed. As the horse went down, its momentum pitched Will from the saddle. He hit the ground, screaming, until the scream turned to a raspy husk and cattle trampled over him, smashing bones, flattening his head like a squashed pumpkin, ripping out muscle and sinew, cutting off his scream, and smashing his neck to a bloody pulp.
Dane picked out a rider and tracked him with his six-gun.
Logan Heckler saw Dane aiming his pistol at him and brought his up. Dane fired first and Logan felt something hard smack into his neck. He slapped at it and his hand came back into view all smeared with blood. He felt a light-headedness before the pain hit him as the bullet exited on the other side, just below his right ear. The land and the stampeding cattle blurred, and when he tried to yell, there was no sound from his mouth. He spit out a large clot of blood and then the sky turned coal black. He felt his heart pump fast and then he shuddered as it stopped. He fell from his saddle, and cattle streamed over him, slashing his body with cloven hooves until there was nothing left of him but shredded clothing embedded in a blood-soaked mass of flesh that was turning him into a skeleton.
Concho shot an onrushing cowhand who had angled his horse to cut him off. He could see the herd bending, turning in on him, but the cowhand was an immediate threat. He squeezed the trigger when Chub was twenty feet away and saw the bullet open a black hole square in the center of Chub’s breastbone.
Chub’s finger squeezed the trigger of his Remington six-gun, but the bullet went straight to the ground as Chub’s breath left him and he could not draw any more air into his lungs. He felt a sharp pain as if he had been struck by a hammer and then his consciousness shrank to the size of a small glowing pea and then winked out like a crushed firefly. His pistol dropped from his hand and he followed it to the ground a moment later. He hit the ground with a thud and never felt the slash of hooves as cattle swarmed over him and dashed on in their headlong rush away from the constant thunder of firearms.
Carlos Montoya saw Concho and started to angle through the herd to get at him. But there was another would-be rustler blocking his way.
Skip saw the Mexican charging toward him, struggling to get through the herd without being knocked from his horse or having his horse bowled over by a mass of horned white-faced cattle. He swung his horse around and cocked his pistol.
Carlos saw red. He watched Skip, and gave his horse its head as he dug spurs into its flanks. The horse bucked away from the cattle and charged on a clear path toward Skip.
Skip fired at Carlos from thirty-five yards. Even as he squeezed the trigger, Montoya’s horse swerved and jumped ahead of a pair of steers and headed straight for him.
Skip thumbed back the hammer of his pistol.
Too late.
Carlos fired his own six-gun from twenty-five yards straight at Skip. The shot was low and blew a hole in Skip’s gut some four inches above his belt buckle.
Skip felt the bullet strike him like a sixteen-pound sledgehammer. He touched a hand to the wound, and blood gushed onto his palm and over his fing
ers. He fired his pistol again, but the Mexican was only a blur and wavering out of focus as if he were only a reflected image in a pool of water.
Carlos rode in closer and fired his pistol again, almost at point-blank range. He saw the bullet smash into Skip’s forehead, just above his left eyebrow. A saucer-sized piece of bone exploded from the back of Skip’s head and flew away from him in a cloud of misty crimson spray.
Skip’s eyes glassed over and froze in a fixed empty stare as he slid from the saddle square into the path of a dozen whitefaces. They swerved to avoid the fallen man and his horse, but the cattle behind them kept on coming and turned Skip’s body into a bloody smear of flesh and clothing that was soon pounded into the soil like so much fertilizer.
Concho saw Skip go down. He recognized Carlos and was boiling with anger. At the same time, he saw Dane’s hands turning both ends of the herd to encircle him and the rest of his men. Carlos was riding toward an open place, trying to outrun the cattle that were streaming all around him.
“There Concho,” Joe said, pointing to the leader of the outlaw band.
“I see him, Joe,” Dane said.
“We go?” Joe asked.
Dane saw that there were yards and yards of cattle between him and Concho. He didn’t see how they could ride through without injuring their horses or getting thrown from their horses. He didn’t fancy getting trampled to death, but he wanted to get close enough to Concho to get a clear shot.
“If you see a way through, Joe, go to it. I’ll follow you.”
Joe nodded. Then he rode up behind a running steer and sideswiped him with his horse. The steer swerved onto a different path, but more cattle filled his empty spot and ran headlong toward the open plain.
As Dane hugged the path directly behind Joe, he watched as Eagle kept inching his horse toward Concho.
Then two men in Concho’s band turned their horses and started emptying their six-guns into the cattle rushing toward them. One cow fell, another staggered with a bullet in its lung, and the cattle behind them veered away from the injured animals.
Mitch and Lyle dropped two head, then retreated a few yards and began to shoot at other cattle. They rode up to where the cattle had fallen and tried to stack other cows behind them. They fired until their pistols were empty, then quickly ejected the spent cartridges and reloaded.
The Omaha Trail Page 23
