The Long Hitch

by Michael Zimmer

  It was after dark before they finished putting things in shape. Knuckling the small of his back, Buck arched the kinks from his spine as Nate lowered a jack under the rear axle of his trail wagon.

  “Lordy,” Nate said, mopping sweat from his brow with a wadded bandanna. “This kinda work’ll make a man old.”

  “It’ll give you fresh appreciation for supper tonight,” Buck replied, smiling.

  “I dunno. Side-pork, beans, biscuits. I’d sure fancy sinkin’ my teeth into something different for a change.”

  “Don’t say that too loud or you’ll have half the crew hoofing it back to Malad City for their suppers.”

  Nate chuckled. “Tell you what, boss-man, I might just lead that mutiny myself.” His expression changed then, and he turned away guiltily.

  Buck didn’t say anything, but he was remembering the look on Milo’s face the night he’d learned that the Box K was owned by Jock Kavanaugh. The word mutiny held a special meaning to the men of the K, and not a pleasant one.

  Buck lowered his arms. A lantern was gliding swiftly toward them; he’d already identified the sturdy canvas riding skirt at its side.

  “You go on and see what she wants,” Nate said. “I’ll put this away.”

  Buck nodded absently. He could tell from Dulce’s long stride, captured in the lantern’s yellow light, that something was wrong. Leaving Nate to return the jack and chocks to the mess wagon, he walked out to meet her.

  “Buck, it’s Gwen,” Dulce said when they met. “She hasn’t come back yet.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I can’t find her, and her horse isn’t on its picket line. Neither is Thad’s.”

  “Have you talked to O’Rourke?”

  “No. Mister O’Rourke isn’t very … approachable.”

  “Let’s go talk to him now,” Buck said curtly.

  They found Paddy O’Rourke hovering over a small fire in front of the women’s tent, tending to a skillet of sizzling bacon and frying potatoes. He looked up as Buck and Dulce approached, but didn’t rise or offer a greeting. In the pulsating light, his face looked like a rough-hewn walnut plank left too close to the hearth, and his black eyes glinted like slivers of polished coal.

  “Miss Kavanaugh tells me Miss Haywood hasn’t returned,” Buck said, coming to a stop across the fire. “Do you know where she is?”

  Paddy shrugged. “The lady don’t tell me what she’s gonna do.”

  “What about Collins?”

  “That pig …”—it came out peeg—“don’t tell me nothing, either.”

  “Did you see which way they went?”

  “I see the woman with you at the head of the train. I am back here.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Like a good little peón, eh?”

  Buck’s dislike for the man ratcheted up another notch. “It’s late, O’Rourke, and your boss isn’t back. Doesn’t that worry you?”

  The dark-skinned Irishman’s teeth flashed briefly through the veil of his mustache. “No, it don’t worry me, but that’s one very rich lady, very important.” He stood fluidly, like a waterfall in reverse, and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Maybe it worries you, eh?”

  “Buck,” Dulce said softly. “Let’s go.”

  “Not yet.” Buck’s eyes had narrowed with a barely contained anger. “How long have you known Mitch Kroll?” he pressed O’Rourke.

  “Kroll?” O’Rourke shrugged. “I don’t know Kroll.”

  “I saw you talking to him last night, outside of camp.”

  “Is that against your rules, too, that a peón like me talks to one of the great Box K drivers?”

  “Kroll says he knew you from Arizona. Are you saying you don’t remember him?”

  Again that expansive shrug, almost in mockery. “I meet so many. Who knows?”

  Buck was getting nowhere, and running out of patience. He said: “We’re going to have to talk one of these days. I’m real curious about where you learned to handle a coach the way you do.”

  “Sure,” Paddy replied with a crooked grin. “I be right here, eh? Where you put me.”

  Buck turned away, Dulce staying close to his side. When they’d put some distance between themselves and O’Rourke, she shivered and clutched her arms under her breasts. “I don’t like him,” she said. “He frightens me.”

  A shout from the upper end of the camp announced the arrival of riders, and Buck lengthened his stride. By the time he got there, Gwen and Thad were guiding their horses between the wagons. Collins’s hat was crumbled on one side, coated with dust, and Gwen’s hair was in disarray. She was subdued, more cowed than frightened, a demeanor that seemed unnatural on her.

  Grabbing the chestnut’s reins, Buck said: “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened,” Gwen replied snappishly. She tried to pull away, but Buck held tightly to the reins.

  “Dammit, I’m getting tired of people telling me nothing happened when I know something did.”

  Gwen’s voice turned icy. “I can assure you, Mister McCready, nothing occurred that is of any concern to you.”

  “You should’ve been back two hours ago.”

  “When I return anywhere is my business, not yours.”

  “The hell,” Buck spat. “I told you to be back here before dark. If you’ve got a reason for disobeying that, you’d best spill it now.”

  Collins nudged his horse forward. “Curb your tone, McCready. I’ll not let you speak to Miss Haywood that way.”

  “Hush, sonny,” Ray Jones said, coming up on one side of Collins while Joe Perry came up on the other. “The wagon master’s talkin’.”

  “Maybe we all ought to cool off a little,” Peewee suggested. Sidling close to Buck, he added: “She’s back and she’s safe, that’s all that matters, ain’t it?”

  Buck drew a ragged breath, but he knew Peewee was right. Pushing Gwen now would only worsen matters. Letting go of the chestnut’s reins, he said: “Take care of your horse, Miss Haywood, then go have your supper. We’ll talk about this later.”

  Gwen’s expression was taut with fury as she drove her slim heels into the chestnut’s ribs. Collins followed her. Glancing at the others who had been drawn by the sounds of confrontation, Buck said wearily: “Go on, all of you. Grab yourselves something to eat and get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

  They wandered off, all except for Peewee and Dulce, and, when Buck shook his head at Dulce, she retreated, too, taking the lantern with her.

  “How’re you doin’, Bucky?” Peewee asked gently.

  “I’m all right. Just wound a little tight right now.”

  “You’re doing good, boy. We’re making good time, and under conditions Mase never had to face.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at what you’re saddled with. A ramrod no one’s ever heard of, that Haywood gal and them two jaspers she’s got workin’ for her, muleskinners you don’t know from Adam … not to mention how important this cargo is to Jock.”

  Buck nodded thoughtfully.

  “You notice her hair?” Peewee asked.

  “Thad’s hat was bunged up, too.”

  “Makes a man wonder.”

  “About Thad and Gwen?”

  “Stranger things have happened, and that Haywood gal is a wild one. Ain’t no doubt about that.”

  “She’s wild, but I can’t see her hooking up with Collins. She’d consider him too far beneath her.”

  “Something sure as hell happened out there.”

  “I agree,” Buck said. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

  “She won’t tell you anything. That gal’s as stubborn as my off pointer, Betsy.”

  Buck wanted to tell him about the straps that had been cut on the smokestacks, to query his old friend about motives and suspects, but he knew that, if he said anything, Ray would know about it before the evening passed, and the rest of the crew would hear of it before dawn.

  “I keep telling myself it’s because of Mase and … some other things that’v
e happened.”

  “Like that gal, Sally Hayes, getting shot just as you walked into the room?”

  Buck gave him a curious look.

  “Hell, word gets around. There’s always someone slipping into town for one more drink or a last fling with a chippy.”

  “Who slipped into town?” Buck asked, but Peewee only grinned and Buck didn’t push it; he’d slipped into town too many times himself over the years. “What do you know about the new men?”

  “Not much. We’ve all heard stories about Mitch Kroll, and Big Kona’s got as good a reputation on the trail as any man I know. The others.…” He shrugged. “Little Ed seems all right, but Lang and Mead act touchy as skinned snakes, like they was cut from the same bolt of cloth as O’Rourke.”

  “How’d Mead hurt his hand?”

  Peewee laughed. “Fell off the wood wagon,” he said, referring to the buckboard of firewood that Jock sent out to the caravan each night that it was camped outside of Corinne. “Clumsy oaf,” he added, still chuckling.

  “What about Garth Lang?”

  “He didn’t fall off anybody’s wagon that I know of, but he sure acts like he’s sore about something. Ray tried talkin’ to him last night, but the man wouldn’t hardly converse.”

  “It’s a puzzle,” Buck said moodily. “Men get their dander up all the time, but they generally work it out or fight it out. It seems like half this crew is riding on chapped butts, but I’m damned if I know what’s chafing ’em.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Peewee said: “Well, the K’s got its ghosts, Buck. I reckon you know that even if we don’t talk about it.”

  “What ghosts?”

  Peewee gave him a patient glance.

  “The mutiny? Lord, Peewee, that was thirty years ago. I don’t know why those damn’ rumors haven’t died out by now.”

  “They ain’t all rumors,” Peewee said, then hastily added: “I know you’re close to Jock, and I know you love Dulce, and I know Mase was like a pa to you, but there’s … well, Jock ain’t the same man now that he was thirty years ago. He’s still a hard-ass, but he was worse then.”

  Buck’s tone stiffened. “Are you saying Jock killed those men, like the rumors claim?”

  Peewee was silent for a long time, then finally shook his head. “I wasn’t there, Buck.”

  “But you believe the stories?”

  “A lot of men do.”

  Buck made a dismissing gesture with his hand and started to walk away. “They’re jealous, Peewee, that’s all.”

  “Mase.…”

  Buck jerked to a stop. “What about Mase?”

  Peewee sighed. “Well, he was always kinda protective of you, Buck. He didn’t always tell you the whole of a thing.”

  “First you called Jock a killer, now you’re saying Mase was a liar, is that it?”

  “If Mase was a liar, it was only because he wanted what was best for you. That’s one of the reasons the boys all come to think so highly of him. He done right by you, Buck, near as I’ve ever been able to tell. He wasn’t always like that before you come along.”

  Buck looked away but didn’t speak.

  “You was gonna hear it sooner or later,” Peewee added almost apologetically. “With Mase gone, folks’ll start talkin’ more openly. I just didn’t want you gettin’ in a brawl over something without knowin’ the backside of the story.”

  “What backside?” Buck asked quietly.

  But Peewee had said all he intended to on the subject. “I reckon it’s enough right now that you know there is a backside. Just … don’t go jumpin’ the gun.” He patted the younger man’s shoulder with affection. “You’re doin’ a good job, Buck. Keep on doin’ what you’re doin’ and we’ll make it to Montana just fine.”

  “Ghosts or no ghosts?”

  “Yes, sir, ghosts or no ghosts.”

  They were on the road before sunup the next morning. Peewee kept his mules at a brisk walk until the grade steepened; after that, he let them set their own pace.

  The train passed the Devil’s Glade relay station late in the morning, then broke for an early midday rest half a mile beyond it. Buck noticed the intense looks both Gwen and Thad gave the station, but he didn’t say anything. His anger toward Gwen had cooled overnight, his thoughts occupied with the long climb that lay before them.

  While the mules cropped the fresh spring grass, the men lounged in the shade of their wagons or fished for trout in Devil’s Creek. Grazing the remuda was the main reason they stopped for a couple of hours each day around noon; with full bellies, the mules were more apt to sleep restfully at night, that way maintaining their strength for the following day’s pull.

  Buck kept today’s break short and had them on the move again in under an hour. The grade grew worse after Devil’s Glade, but still wasn’t horrible. It was a long, steady pull, though, without any stretches of level ground to give the teams a break.

  They reached the summit around 2:00 P.M. and Buck called another halt, although they kept the mules in harness this time. He and Milo rode back along the length of the train to help the drivers lower their drags, then maneuver the cradle-like shoes under the rear wheels of the lead wagons. With the day more than half gone, Buck was feeling pressured to get the outfit off the mountain, and he drove the men hard, sweating and cursing under his breath at every delay. The teamsters gave him a wide berth when they could, but no one seemed to take it personally. Not even Kroll or Mead or Lang.

  They were rolling again in less than thirty minutes, with Buck up front to set the pace. Milo brought up the rear. The grade was gentler on this side. Had it not been for the length of the descending slope and a steep, narrow spot maybe half a mile below the crest, they probably wouldn’t have lowered their drags at all.

  Buck wasn’t anticipating any problems as they entered the narrows, which was why the loud pop, followed by the shriek of tearing lumber, gave him such a start that the hairs across the back of his neck seemed to jump up like hackles. He yanked Zeke around just as Peewee’s lead wagon lurched forward off its drag, nearly jack-knifing on the slender thread of road. The breechings on the two big wheel mules drew unmercifully tight as nearly six tons of wagon and freight tried to run up over them.

  Buck cursed and drove his heels into Zeke’s ribs, racing back the way he’d come. Peewee’s wheelers were scrunched low to the ground as they frantically pushed back at the massive weight that continued to gain on them. Peewee was straining on the brake cord with his left hand, attempting to tighten the wooden pads against the iron rims even as he struggled with the jerkline to control his mules with his right. He wasn’t having much luck with either. His second wagon was veering toward the sharp drop and his mules were jumping wildly, their brays like damaged trumpets blaring in the narrow cañon.

  Forcing Zeke alongside the nigh-leader, Buck grabbed the mule’s bridle and yanked the animal’s head toward him. “Keep ’em movin!” he bellowed to Peewee. “Don’t try to hold ’em back!”

  He didn’t know if Peewee could hear him or not above the cacophony of wagons and panicking mules, but the teamster suddenly loosened his hold on the jerkline and Buck yelled— “Hup!”—into the leader’s ear while tugging madly on the head-stall. “Come on, dammit, move!”

  The nigh-leader surged forward with a baleful snort, dragging its mate along via the jockey stick fastened between their bits. The mule’s ears were laid flat and its long, yellow teeth snapped viciously at the air above Buck’s leg. Only the mule’s solid connection to the off-side leader prevented the frenzied animal from peeling the flesh from Buck’s thigh.

  “Come on, you flop-eared son of Satan,” Buck growled, straining on the headstall. Then Peewee shouted a warning and Buck looked over his shoulder just as the whole outfit began rapidly to pick up speed.

  “Run ’em into the hill!” Peewee shouted, pointing to the cedar- and boulder-strewn slope at their side. “Run ’em aground before the mules stampede!”

  Buck’s heart was like a lump of cl
ay lodged in his throat as he hauled roughly on the mule’s bridle. The hot, smoky odor of slipping brake pads soured the air as those mules caught between the wagons and the lead team began bunching up in a desperate effort to avoid being crushed. With the leaders turned. Buck twisted in his saddle to shout hoarse encouragement to the rest of the hitch.

  The twelves, tens, and eights were already crashing through the scrub pines and sage, but the lower teams were still on the road, the wheelers just inches ahead of the runaway wagons. Then Zeke burst through a screen of chest-high cedars and his front hoofs caught a protruding stone, throwing the leggy black to his knees.

  Buck lost his grip on the nigh-leader’s headstall and grabbed for Zeke’s dusty roach. With Peewee’s mules scrambling up the side of the hill behind him, Zeke had to throw himself awkwardly to one side to avoid being trampled. Buck lost both stirrups in the mêlée, but managed to hang onto the saddle horn. Spooked by the close call, Zeke started bucking across the mountain’s crazily-tilted slope. By the time Buck got him stopped, he had only one rein left and was tipped halfway out of his saddle. Behind him, shrouded in roiling dust clouds, Peewee’s long hitch had come to a jarring halt, a near hopeless tangle of leather and chains and blowing, kicking mules. The leaders, twelves, tens, and eights were standing in the sage on the side of the mountain, their muzzles pointed in half a dozen different directions. The sixes, pointers, and wheelers were at the side of the road, the lead wagon jammed up hard against the steep slope, the trailer pointed toward the gorge.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Buck breathed, slipping free of his saddle and looping Zeke’s reins around the branches of a scraggly cedar. He was stumbling back down the mountain even as Nate, Joe, and Lou Kitledge were hurrying forward, their eyes wide as hen’s eggs as they scampered up the side of the hill to skirt the wreck. Glancing at the caravan, Buck was relieved to see that the other teams, although high-headed and snorty, were standing firm.