The Chuckwagon Trail

by William W. Johnstone

  Some of the cowboys snickered at that. Mac felt the tension rising.

  “We can send a rider back to the Rolling J and ask Mr. Jefferson who he wants to ramrod the herd on to Abilene. Or you can back down and let me take the job.”

  Flagg never lifted his voice, but the cold edge to it chilled Mac. He felt death building in the air, death beyond that which had already visited Lem Carson.

  “Let’s vote who takes the herd to Abilene. All who want me, raise your hands.” Northrup looked around, glaring.

  Mac counted fast.

  “And those of us what want Patrick Flagg, get those filthy paws into the air,” ordered Rattler. His was the first hand to lift. One by one and then faster and faster, the outfit voted.

  “It’s not even close,” Mac said. “Ten for Deke Northrup. Thirty-five for Patrick Flagg.”

  “Two men short.” Rattler looked down at Carson, then amended, “One short. Who didn’t vote?”

  “I didn’t vote for myself. There was no call to,” Flagg said. “This isn’t something to be put to a vote. Now get the herd bedded down. All of you.” He turned to Mac. “Except you. You get evening grub ready.” The cowboys mounted and headed away.

  “I’ll see to burying him,” Mac said, seeing as to how none of the cowboys had lingered to help with the chore. “Any particular place?”

  Flagg looked around, then pointed to a small hill.

  Mac nodded and said, “He’ll have a good view from there.”

  “Take him over. I’ll get a shovel and help dig.”

  “I’ll ask Rattler to make up a marker,” Mac said. “He’s handy with small things.”

  He heaved the trail boss’s body up over his saddle, letting him dangle over on either side. He stared at Carson for a moment, then called to the new trail boss.

  “Flagg, did you notice that—”

  “That Lem wasn’t killed by any bullet falling from the sky? Yeah, I did. That hole shows he was shot from behind, maybe even from a little lower with the gun pointing up.” Flagg looked toward the group surrounding Deke Northrup. They talked and weren’t working on the herd.

  Mac felt the tension, even at this distance. Without another word, he led his horse toward the hill, where they buried Lem Carson and had a short service for him just before everyone ate a quiet evening meal.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Looks good. Set up your wagon here,” Flagg said as he reined in. He spoke without looking at Mac, who had gotten used to the man’s ways after a week of him working as trail boss. Flagg never said much, but when he did, he meant it.

  “Why quit so early?” Mac asked from the chuckwagon seat. “We’ve got another hour or two of daylight.”

  “There’s a river to ford. We’ll tackle it the first thing in the morning. We start now, darkness will drop before we got half the herd across.”

  Mac understood that. Having to deal with the longhorns in the dark was foolish at best and deadly at worst. Even with many of the eight-foot-spanning horns polled, they were deadly if they took it into their feeble brains to swing about just as a rider came past. More than one rider had had his horse gored to death. And so far, one rider had been laid up with a horn through his leg. This had been Mac’s only call to do any doctoring, which fell under his job description along with damned near everything else that wasn’t riding and herding.

  “Should I whip up something special to get the men ready for the morning?”

  “Save it for breakfast. Steak and whatever you got left.”

  “No eggs,” Mac said, knowing what Flagg meant. The man liked nothing more than eggs for breakfast, but putting in ten or even fifteen miles a day left no time to ask after freshly laid eggs at the farms they passed. The few dozen eggs he had bought in Waco had lasted for only a couple days of travel.

  Some of the food had gone a bit stale, and Mac was happy he had bought the spices. Toss enough pepper into any dish and the bad taste and smell went away. He tried not to serve too many meals like that, but there had been a stretch of more than four days when he’d had no other choice. The going had been hard, and there had been no chance to replenish his larder with fresh food.

  “Before you start, let’s get in some practice with that hog leg of yours,” Flagg suggested when he had swung down from the saddle.

  This surprised Mac, and he said so.

  “It ain’t that I expect trouble from Northrup and his boys,” Flagg went on, “but you ought to be able to hit the broad side of a barn even if you’re not locked inside. You got any empty airtights to plink at?”

  “A couple.”

  “Set up six. Over yonder.”

  Flagg secured his horse to the chuckwagon’s back wheel. He stretched and walked around to get the kinks out from long hours spent in the saddle, scouting the trail for the herd. By the time he was ready, Mac had his S&W unlimbered and the cans set up.

  “You got six shots. You take out all six of them cans. No need to hurry, but think about moving along right sprightly, as if your life depended on throwing lead that way.”

  Mac took a breath, squared his stance, lifted the Model 3, and cocked the hammer. He squeezed off a shot, cocked, repeated, and worked his way down the line, hitting all six cans and feeling good about his improvement.

  Flagg snorted and said, “You only scared that last can. You’re still canting your wrist, turning it a mite. Keep it upright. You won’t miss as much.”

  With that, Flagg tugged on the reins, pulled them loose from the wagon wheel, and mounted. He looked down at Mac.

  “You get that iron reloaded and serve a meal fit for a king. The boys have put in some hard days since Carson was killed.”

  Flagg rode away to scout the river where they’d have to ford in the morning. A low line of scrubby trees twisting across the flat, open landscape marked the stream’s course.

  Mac worked steadily until the herd caught up and the cowboys started bedding the cattle down for the night. The last hour of daylight made it more difficult to get them settled. Mac wasn’t one to brag, but his meal matched the best he had done. After the crew had shoveled down the grub, he cleaned up and was ready to turn in himself when he heard rustling in the trees along the river.

  “What’s that?” He nudged Rattler and tapped his ear, urging him to listen.

  Rattler frowned, then said, “Sounds like it might be a turkey. You got it in mind to shoot one of them?”

  “Or more, if it comes to that. The Rolling J has some mighty fine beef, but it gets tiresome eating steak every day of the week.”

  “For this many men, you’d have to kill a flock.”

  “Want to come with me and see what we can scare up?” He saw the answer on Rattler’s face.

  “Can’t make it. I got the first two hours of night herd. You got any requests for me to sing?”

  “Not that off-key rendition of ‘The Whorehouse Bells Were Ringing,’ ” Mac said. “I never heard anyone sing it worse.”

  Rattler grinned and lifted his cracked voice in song.

  “The whorehouse bells were ringing,

  And the pimp stood in the door.

  He’d had a hard on all day long

  To screw some dirty whore.”

  “That’s the one you don’t sing,” Mac said as he grimaced. “You don’t do a bad rendition of ‘Lorena’ or ‘In the Days of Forty-Nine.’ Stick with those.”

  “You just don’t want me stretchin’ my vocal chords and tryin’ anything different,” Rattler said in mock complaint. “Maybe that particular song brings back memories for you that ain’t too happy?”

  “It’s mighty dark out in the woods. You might sing something to keep the cows agitated. I can find my way back to camp by following their lowing when they complain about your scratchy voice.”

  “You can’t fool me. You want to get away from all them fellers snorin’ their fool heads off.”

  Mac couldn’t deny that. Already half the men were pulling blankets over their shoulders and curling up for a n
ight’s sleep. A few sat around the fire swapping tall tales and outright lies for the sheer pleasure of it. One or two of them managed fine stories that kept the others entertained, but mostly they talked about their lives and ladies they’d left behind. A few opined about the ladies they would find in Abilene, but only the most inventive didn’t repeat themselves by this time in the drive.

  Rattler rode off for his turn at night herd. He had one more night, and then he moved to morning patrol, getting the herd moving at first light. The cowboys all rotated through the day, working the point, sides, and back of the herd, eating dust, then got to watch the cattle for two hour shifts at night. Rattler wouldn’t be back on night duty until they were almost in Abilene at the railhead.

  Mac found a burlap sack and strapped on his gun belt. He had no intention of trying to shoot a turkey in the dark. He was pleased enough with his improvement as a marksman, but to hit a bird on a pitch-black night would require more luck than skill. Hiking steadily toward the sounds of turkeys gobbling and thrashing about in the underbrush, he slowed and finally stopped to get his bearings.

  It occurred to him that wild hogs might find these trees along the river particularly fine for a home. He touched the S&W at his side, sure that the large-caliber bullet could bring down all but the biggest hog—if he saw it in time to draw and accurately fire.

  “No hogs, just turkeys,” he said softly as more gobbling came from straight ahead in the woods. He took careful steps, trying not to make much noise. In the dark, he might as well have led the entire Union Army in full assault. Twigs broke and leaves crunched under his boots no matter how cautious he tried to be.

  The gobbling stopped. He kept walking and found the underbrush where turkeys might be inclined to make nests. Dropping to hands and knees, he began hunting. Luck favored him that night. He found a nest with half a dozen turkey eggs in it almost right away. Carefully, he put them into his sack and continued hunting. After a futile half hour, he gave up.

  “Wore out all my luck in the first couple minutes,” he muttered. As if mocking him, turkeys gobbled somewhere not too far away. He slid his gun from its holster and considered taking a wild shot to scare the birds, maybe flush them out into the open.

  Good sense made him pouch the iron. A shot would bring Flagg and half the camp running to see what was wrong, not to mention the always-present chance that it could spook the cattle and start a stampede.

  Backing out of the trees, he looked around in the darkness until he located the spot where he had parked the chuckwagon. The fires scattered around the campsite had burned lower until they were barely visible. When Mac got back to camp, he added firewood to some of them to help ward off the night’s chill.

  When he was finished with that, he placed the turkey eggs in a basket and wrapped them with cloth to keep them from breaking. Whatever he did with them for breakfast in the morning had to be something special. There wasn’t any need to rush the decision, though. With that to feed his dreams, he curled up under the wagon and went to sleep in minutes.

  * * *

  “Get on across with the wagon first,” Flagg told him. “Then we’ll get the herd moving.”

  Mac looked at the rapidly flowing river with some trepidation. His heart slugged heavily in his chest. He had forded rivers before—but they were creeks in comparison to this stream.

  “There’s no place to ford? We have to swim?”

  “Afraid so, Mac. Get going. You’re holding up the herd.” Flagg waved to Rattler and two others now taking point for the herd, getting them ready for the crossing.

  Keeping that many longhorns swimming in the same direction and not letting the current carry them away was going to take most of the morning. Mac felt guilty for being so slow to get the chuckwagon moving. The current sent logs as thick as his body sailing along in the middle of the river. If he got hit with one of them, it would be like a battering ram smashing in the side of the wagon. He would go right to the bottom—

  He stopped thinking of ways he could die and lose the chuckwagon. Snapping the reins, wishing he had a whip to get the horses pulling faster, he entered the river. Keeping the wagon upright proved to be a chore, but one he was equal to. He found himself shifting his weight back and forth on the seat, trying to maintain the vehicle’s balance even though that probably had little real effect on it.

  The horses disliked swimming as much as he did and kept heading for the far bank. The current in the middle of the river proved too strong to plow right on straight through. He angled the team downstream a little, keeping them working until the lead horse found purchase and leaned into the harness. The next found solid ground and then the rest.

  In a few moments, Mac was safely on the shore, heaving a sigh of relief. He brought the horses to a halt, tied the reins to the brake lever, and dropped to the ground. He had stopped on a slant so water would drain from inside the wagon. A quick check showed he had wrapped everything properly to be kept safe from the water. Almost everything was dry or at least could be dried out in a hurry.

  Best of all, his turkey eggs had survived the crossing. He had dreamed about them the night before but hadn’t come up with a decent way to prepare them.

  He turned to the river and waved to Flagg. The signal wasn’t necessary. The trail boss already had the first few hundred cattle in the water and was leading them across.

  Mac waited for Flagg to reach the shore and come over to him.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked. “Wait for you to scout?”

  “I have to be sure the herd’s across. You go ahead and do the scouting. We’ll follow your trail.”

  “What if I don’t find a good trail?”

  “You’ve ridden alongside Carson and then me the whole time we’ve been gone. You know what to look for and how to set up camp when you find it. We’ll be caught up by noonday. Have a good feed ready for us. The men’ll need it after the work we’re putting in getting them damned cows on this side of the river.”

  Mac puffed with pride that Flagg thought highly enough of him to scout the trail. He watched as the cowboys rode alongside the few dozen cows they brought across each time. Only a handful of cowboys remained on this side to keep the herd together while the rest of the hands returned to bring more across. It was a tedious, dangerous crossing.

  He made one last check of the chuckwagon and the team, then started northward looking for good grazing, easy passage, and a place to park to prepare lunch. Moving faster than the herd today, he found a decent spot and began the midday meal, making a special batch of biscuits since that pleased the outfit more than anything else he cooked.

  As he moved the big kettles off the fire to wait for the Rolling J cowboys, he heard the sound that he had lived with for weeks now. The herd came slowly over a low hill and into a shallow valley he thought perfect for grazing. Alongside were a couple dozen of the cowboys.

  He waved and got Rattler’s attention.

  “You surely do have it easy, Mac,” Rattler called. “All you got to do is ride along, whump up a meal, and then ride on. We got to keep those filthy longhorns moving together.”

  “Everyone’s got problems,” Mac said, knowing Rattler wanted to blow off steam after a hard morning. “Where’s Flagg?”

  “About a hundred head got separated as we were crossin’. They washed on downriver. Him and a half dozen of the others left us to come on ahead while they retrieved them varmints.”

  “A hundred head’s worth a pile of money,” Mac said. “Thirty, forty dollars a head?”

  “Might be that, might be less. Surely that, though, if we get to Abilene ahead of the other herds. It’s a matter of racin’ ’em now to get top dollar. Hey, are those biscuits I smell bakin’ in that Dutch oven?”

  “They are, and you can wait your turn like everybody else. Might be, I hold off feeding you until Flagg and the others get back.”

  “Do that and you’ll have a mutiny on your hands,” Rattler warned.

  “There’s a stre
am yonder. You’ve got time to bathe. You smell like a wet dog.”

  “I got plenty of bathin’ done this morning, thank you ’most to death, but Flagg told me to ramrod the outfit until he gets back. Save me some of them biscuits now, you hear?”

  Rattler let out an exuberant whoop and rode away, leaving Mac to complete his preparations.

  He worked steadily and got the meal lined up, mentally going over when he started what and how long it took to cook. The beefsteaks were the quickest since most of the men preferred their meat so bloody that it mooed when a knife cut into it. He put a kettle of water on over a fire to boil so he could toss in some greens he had gathered. The men didn’t like weeds boiled until they turned to mush, as too many of them claimed, but he had yet to see one of them that didn’t lick the last bit off their plates. Variety helped keep up morale as well as preventing them from getting sick from any number of diseases. Mac took some pride in the fact that he hadn’t given any of the outfit food poisoning yet.

  “Where you keep it?”

  The sudden question made him turn around. “What’s that?” he asked. Mac tried to keep the disgust from his voice as he saw who had ridden up to the chuckwagon.

  Thumbs Fontaine was thick with Deke Northrup. While it could hardly be said he was Northrup’s second in command, that probably wasn’t too far off the mark.

  “You got a couple bottles of whiskey,” Fontaine said as he crossed both hands on his saddle horn and leaned forward. “Me and the boys want to celebrate gettin’ across the river. That was one nasty chore, and we want to whoop it up.”

  “The whiskey’s only for medicinal use,” Mac said. “You know that. And you know Mr. Jefferson doesn’t like any of his hands boozing it up out on the trail.”

  Fontaine spat to the side and then said, “That was Carson’s idea, not the owner’s. Hell, why do you think they call it the Rolling J? Jefferson rolled on out of a poker game so drunk he could hardly stand. He held four jacks.”

  “Never heard that story. I always thought it had something to do with his name being Jefferson. Now get on out of here. Food’s not gonna be ready for another hour.”