The Chuckwagon Trail

by William W. Johnstone

  “There’s damned near two thousand longhorns in this herd. You can’t be serious!”

  “I know my job. These cows are sick. Look at this one. About ready to fall down and die.” Wilson shoved hard against the longhorn. The steer swung its long horns around, trying to gore the man for such an indignity. The ungainly horns caused it to stumble when it missed sinking the tip of its left horn into the vet’s belly.

  “It can outrun a racehorse. You’re nothing but a fraud. They paid you to lie about the condition of my herd!”

  Dr. Wilson signaled. The two vigilantes who had accompanied him from town came over, hands on their rifles. They stayed at a distance.

  “What’s it going to be, Doc?”

  “Kill the lot of them. Texas fever.”

  Mac turned, went into a crouch, and had his Model 3 out and cocked, aimed at the nearest townsman.

  “You shoot that steer and you’ll be buried with it.”

  “Mac, calm down.” Flagg sucked in a deep breath but didn’t take his own advice. He turned red in the face from anger.

  “They’re crooked, Flagg. They want to steal our herd, and this is their way of doing it. The doc here knows the cattle are fine.”

  “They’re sick, every last one of them. Look at their eyes. You can see the whites all around. That’s a sure-fire sign they’re sick. And listen to them. They’re bleating like damned sheep. That’s not normal. They’re all infected.”

  “Where’d you get your training? There’s nothing wrong with them being frightened or lowing the way they are. They’re frightened, not sick.” Flagg rested his hand on his gun. “How much did they pay you to lie?”

  “The mayor told me you’d pay up since the cows are yours, and they’re all sick.”

  “In a pig’s eye I’ll pay you one red cent, you crooked son of a bitch!”

  Flagg reached out and grabbed the vet by the lapels of his threadbare coat and shook him so hard the man’s teeth clacked together.

  Mac took his eyes off the men who’d ridden from town with the veterinarian. This almost cost him his life.

  The first rifle bullet tore through his hat brim. He swung around and fired. His usual deadly aim was off because the longhorn swung its head back at that moment and banged one of its polled horns into his back. Stumbling forward, he went to his knees.

  This saved his life when the second rifleman opened fire. The round went over his head, but his hat picked up another hole, this one through the crown. Mac flopped forward and rested his elbows on the ground so he could steady his aim. The Smith & Wesson roared again.

  This time he caught one man in the thigh. The vigilante yelped, dropped his rifle, and grabbed for the wound. Blood oozed through his fingers. Since there wasn’t any spurting, Mac knew he hadn’t hit the main artery.

  “Drop your rifle,” he ordered the other man. “Do it or your partner will get another round. This one will be through his head!”

  “Don’t listen to him, Guy,” the wounded man grated. “He only wants to kill us both so we can’t tell anyone about the sick cows.”

  For two cents, Mac would have plugged them both. Flagg stopped him.

  “You men, get back to town. Take this quack with you.” Flagg kicked Dr. Wilson in the butt and sent him stumbling toward the other two. “Leave your rifles. I don’t want you shooting at any of my men as you make dust.”

  “We’ll be back,” Wilson said. “We’ll destroy the whole damned herd.”

  “You’ll never see it if you’re dead, you lying weasel.” Flagg kicked again at the seat of Wilson’s britches. He missed this time, but the veterinarian jumped as if he had connected.

  “I’m bleeding to death, Doc. Help me,” pleaded the man shot high in the leg.

  “Back in town. I’ll see to you back in town.” Dr. Wilson stepped up onto his horse and galloped away.

  The wounded man moaned. His partner stared at the blood as if he had never seen anything like this before. He turned dull eyes up at Mac and said, “You shot him. You shot him!”

  Revolver back in its holster, Mac went to the man and roughly knocked him to the ground. He whipped out his knife and cut away the bloody fabric. The wound was only a crease. He pressed the tip of the knife into the wounded man’s throat to keep him still, took off his bandana and tied it around the thigh just above the bloody groove. He tightened it more than necessary just to see the man wince.

  “Get him to a real doctor. Not that quack. I wouldn’t let Wilson opine on whether the sun’s shining. He’d as likely get it wrong as he would see the light.”

  The two hobbled away. The wounded man’s partner helped him into the saddle, and they both lit out like their horses’ tails were on fire. Mac watched them vanish into the twilight.

  “Stupid sons of bitches,” he grumbled.

  “Maybe not so stupid if they keep us from getting through to Kansas. We can’t go back to Fort Gibson and find another branch of the Shawnee Trail. That would put us two weeks behind schedule.”

  “We’re running low on most supplies, too. We have enough for another two weeks, maybe ten days,” Mac said. “Then I don’t know what we’ll do.”

  “Eat nothing but cow meat.” Flagg kicked at a dirt clod, then stomped on it in anger. “I should have known they’d try this.”

  “They’re ransoming the herd?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know. It might just be that they’re sincere. If that’s the case, no amount of bribery will get us past their town without swinging far out of the way.”

  “Do you think it’s possible to ever convince them the cattle are healthy?” Mac chewed on his lower lip as he thought.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “There must be another town around here. There’s always a string of towns near the borders of states. What if I find another vet and have him check the herd? If he’s honest, he’ll know there’s nothing wrong.”

  “Then you take him into town and have him convince the vigilantes to let us pass by?” Flagg shook his head. “That sounds chancy to me. What if he’s a goddamned liar, too?”

  “We might have to shoot our way past if that happens. But a second opinion has a better chance of swaying the townspeople and keeping anybody else from getting shot.”

  “The man you winged’ll bring the marshal back with the rest of that posse. We’re liable to be in for a fight no matter what anyone says, even another animal doctor.”

  “I can stay and fight.” Mac touched his gun. It wasn’t the way he wanted to deal with their problem, but if it came to that, he would. Letting the townspeople destroy the herd would not only ruin the Rolling J ranch, it would deprive all the cowboys who had driven the cattle this far of their pay.

  “One gun, more or less, won’t matter. You stand a chance of convincing them not to kill all our longhorns.”

  “A slim one,” Mac said. He mounted and headed toward the town, taking a fork in the road to avoid riding into that rattlesnakes’ den.

  Almost reaching Kansas was a lucky break for the drovers. Towns popped up on either side of a boundary. Some preferred to live in Indian Territory where the land was cheap, and dealing with the tribes could be easier than trying to convince bureaucrats in some far-off capital of their needs. But across the line in Kansas was the United States again. Laws were different and understandable, at least to Mac. He kept his head bowed as he rode into the chilly wind.

  He crossed into the state and saw he had guessed right about a town being close by. With increasing hope that his ride would be worthwhile, he trotted into town and looked around. Finding the vet proved easier than expected. The man had hung his shingle beside the town’s livery stable.

  Mac went into the tiny office and was almost overpowered by the pungent odors. His nose wrinkled, and his eyes started to water. A smallish man with a big mustache sat at a table with open bottles of the smelly chemicals and beakers holding his mixtures, many of them corked.

  “Sorry about the smell. I’m whipping up a batch
of medicine for a sick horse out on the Gorman spread.” He pushed away from the table, adjusted his eyeglasses, and saw Mac more clearly. “That likely means nothing to you since I’ve never seen you in town before. What can I do for you?”

  Mac explained the Rolling J’s dilemma.

  The vet took off his glasses and nervously polished them, put them on, then tried once more to clean the lenses as he thought about all he had heard. Finally sucking in a deep breath, he said, “Convincing them’s not likely to be possible. I’ve argued with Doc Wilson endlessly ’bout what symptoms to look for in an infected cow.”

  “He mostly makes up symptoms, as far as I could tell,” Mac said.

  “You didn’t hear it from me, but you’re right. I swear, he got his degree from an ad in one of them dime novels. Send in a few dollars, get a degree by mail. I suppose they’re lucky he wanted to kill animals and not people with his bogus degree.”

  “You’ll look at the cattle?”

  “You’re not asking me to find that they’re free of Texas—of splenic fever?”

  “No, sir, I’m not. You look, you decide. It’s my belief and that of the trail boss, too, that the cattle are free of any disease.”

  “What might be your position that you’re sure of that diagnosis?”

  Mac hesitated, then said boldly, “I’m the cook.”

  The vet’s eyes widened, then he laughed.

  “You’re an honest man, aren’t you? And who better to know the condition of the herd than someone who slaughters a cow every day or two and has to prepare it?”

  “Nobody,” Mac said. He looked around and saw the nameplate on the vet’s desk. “You’re Dr. Pointer?”

  “Alan Pointer.” The vet stood and thrust out his hand. Mac hesitated. “Go on, the chemicals won’t kill you. They might even fix what ails you.”

  Mac shook hands and had to ask, “What do you think ails me?”

  Dr. Pointer gave him a once-over before saying, “Nothing physical. You have the look of a youngster carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.” He picked up his bag, tossed a few items from the table into it, snapped it shut, and asked, “How far’s the herd?”

  “An hour’s ride. Maybe more if you’re driving a buggy.”

  “Then I’ll ride. The sooner I look at your cows, the sooner I can get back to whipping up a new batch of medicine.”

  The ride back to the herd took less time with Dr. Pointer pushing the pace. Mac’s horse struggled to keep up, being tired out from being ridden so long before.

  “That’s the varmints, eh?” Pointer drew rein, cocked his head to one side, and listened hard.

  “What is it? What do you hear?”

  “A contented herd and a cowboy with the most God-awful voice I ever did hear singing ‘Lorena’ to keep them quiet.”

  “That’s probably Rattler,” Mac said. “He doesn’t know too many songs. Be glad you’re missing his rendition of ‘Dixie.’ ”

  “That would require me to shoot the herd—to save them from such torture,” Pointer said. He looked up as Flagg and two others rode up.

  Mac introduced them.

  “You go check anywhere in the herd you like, Doc. If you want my men to ride with you, they will. Otherwise, get started.” Flagg glanced at Mac, then back to Dr. Pointer.

  “The way you boys approached this makes me think there’s no trouble at all. If there was, you’d want me to look at only a couple of your longhorns.”

  “Any of them.” Flagg hesitated, then asked, “Did Mac arrange for a fee?”

  “We avoided that. If you’re like most drovers, you’re short on money about now. Is that so? I thought so,” Dr. Pointer said. “You pay me in cash money if the cattle are sick. I’ll take three of my choice if they’re not.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Well, now, Mr. Flagg, this inclines me to think even more that you’ve got nothing to hide. Let me get started. I’ll need one of your hands to hold a lantern. Otherwise, I can make my own way through the herd.” He looked at Mac. “When I’m through, you fix me a cup of coffee and something to eat.”

  “I will,” Mac said. “They tell me I make the best biscuits they’ve ever tasted.”

  Pointer snorted.

  “I’ll be the judge of that. And your herd.” With that he rode among the half-asleep cattle.

  “You impressed him. Good,” said Flagg. “He sounds like a man who values honesty.”

  “I’d better get those biscuits started, then, so he can see I wasn’t lying.”

  “Throw out the coffee Rattler made. We don’t want to poison the man before he delivers his report.” Flagg wheeled about and began a circuit around the entire bedded-down herd.

  Mac found the chuckwagon and sampled the coffee. He spit it out, tossed what he had put in a cup after it, then poured the pot onto the ground. If it poisoned the soil, so be it. By the time he had a new pot boiling and had settled in to cook, Dr. Pointer rode up, Flagg beside him.

  “You better have a good cup waiting for me,” the vet said. “That was mighty thirsty work.” He let the words hang for an instant to see if Mac got the hint. He did. Not even looking to Flagg for approval, he poured a shot of the medicinal whiskey into the coffee before handing it to the vet.

  “That hits the spot. And I’ve cut out my heifers. They look to be good eating.”

  “All clear?” Mac let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. There hadn’t been any doubt in his mind what a competent veterinarian would find, but the strain still wore on him. “No sign of disease?”

  “Not a trace. I suppose you want me to talk to those yahoos in town so you can move the herd in the morning.”

  “We do, Doc. You mind going on in tonight?” Flagg motioned to Rattler and another cowboy to get back to the herd.

  “Not at all. You boys keep my cows with your herd. When you get across the state line, you can deliver ’em to me. I’m a better vet than I am a drover.” He smacked his lips as he finished the whiskey-laced coffee, wiped a drop from his mustache, and tossed the cup back to Mac.

  “You go on, Mac. I need to be sure there’s no more trouble with the herd.” Flagg shook hands with Dr. Pointer, mounted, and rode off into the night.

  “Good man, Flagg. He’s a competent trail boss.”

  “I agree, Doc,” Mac said, getting a new horse from his team to ride. Best to let the one he had ridden earlier rest.

  “You pick up on what he says and make it your own.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You’re learning from him. You can do worse. You looking to be trail boss one day yourself?”

  “I enjoy cooking for the outfit too much,” Mac said.

  “You do whip up a fine batch of biscuits. They could use some butter or honey, though. Or gravy. Gracious, I’m making myself hungry just talking about food.”

  Mac settled astride his mount and followed the doctor away from camp toward town. He hoped the vigilantes wouldn’t shoot them out of hand as they approached.

  “Being a chuckwagon cook’s not an ambition too many share, but if you like the job, more power to you. Me, there’s nothing I like more than curing a sick animal. Or like tonight, finding there’s nothing I need to do because they’re all healthy.” Pointer grumbled some about the fools in town jumping at their own shadows.

  Mac kept an eye peeled for the roadblock. The men had moved back into town for the night. He and Dr. Pointer rode down the main street. A few men stirred, but the town was quiet. Where he would present the reputable vet to give his clean bill of health answered itself as he rode past the marshal’s office.

  “We don’t want you in town,” a harsh voice said from the building’s porch. “You might be infected. Or your horse.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Mac said to the man he had argued with out on the road. Like a magnet drawing iron filings, others came to stand by their leader. Enough carried rifles that Mac got uneasy watching the crowd form.

  “I’m Alan Pointer,
vet over—”

  “We know who you are. Doc Wilson warned us about you and your quackery.”

  “See here, I know my job. I am not a quack, unlike Wilson. He—”

  “Doctor, please,” Mac whispered urgently. “Don’t rile them.”

  “Rile them! They’re fools if they believe one word that charlatan says. The herd outside town is healthy, not a trace of Texas fever or anything else infectious.”

  “Liar! What’d they pay you to say that?” Dr. Wilson came up, shaking his fist in the air. “You’d have us all die!”

  “You need to read your medical books, Wilson. There’s—”

  Dr. Pointer let out a yelp as a man grabbed him and dragged him from the saddle.

  Mac went for his gun but never finished his draw before a rock hit him on the side of the head and brought him crashing to the ground. As he tried to scramble to his feet, men grabbed his arms and held him immobile.

  “Tar and feather the liar!” Wilson did what looked like a war dance, stomping about in a circle and waving his arms over his head. Mac wondered if any of the crowd would notice how crazy the vet appeared.

  His unasked question was answered immediately. Two men came running up with a rail. Another opened a bag of feathers and sent them fluttering into the air. Another ran away shouting that he was going to get a pot of pitch. Even then Mac doubted they were sincere until two men started a fire in the middle of the street.

  They were going to tar and feather Dr. Pointer. The vet struggled in the grip of two men while others crowded close. Mac took in the situation in a flash. If he didn’t act now, Pointer and probably he, too, would be dabbed with burning tar and then doused in feathers before being tied onto a hitching post and bounced out of town.

  He sagged, as if passing out. Both men holding him bent to follow him down. With a surge, he stood and threw his arms backward. Caught off balance, they sat heavily. Spinning around, Mac directed his fist at the back of the head of the crowd’s leader. The man stumbled and fell into the pair holding Dr. Pointer. Stepping over them, Mac swung his fists with strength aided by fury. He punched two more and got the vet free.

  “Horse. Ride!” He shoved Dr. Pointer in the direction of his nervous horse.