He pulled up outside their camp and jumped down. He felt their eyes on him as he walked up boldly and asked, “Where’s Weed?”
“What do you want with him?” a man asked in a surly voice.
“He shot my trail boss.” He didn’t bother adding that Flagg had shot Weed or that he had taken a couple potshots at the man as well. With any luck, someone would tell him that Weed’s body had been trampled.
“We don’t know where he got off to. We ain’t seen him since yesterday, before the last stampede.”
Mac heard the lie. He went to the man and stood with his face inches away. A sudden twitch as if he went for his gun made the man jump out of his skin.
“Next time I move, there’ll be a six-shooter in my hand. Where’s Weed?”
“He . . . he . . . we’re tellin’ the truth. We ain’t seen him. The son of a bitch musta lit out and left us on our own.”
“He was your trail boss?”
“As much as anybody.”
Mac wondered at that, then considered how many different brands he had seen on the cattle in the Lazy B herd. The initial herd must have been small. Unlike most drives, the Lazy B herd had grown through picking up strays from other ranches and undoubtedly a tad of rustling. He didn’t care about stolen cattle. He wanted Rolling J cows back and demanded it of the handful of cowboys gathered.
“You’ve got until noon to cut out my cows. My crew is working to get anything with a Lazy B brand driven over here.”
“Why should we do what you want?” The most arrogant of the cowboys came up, thumbs hooked into his gun belt. Mac sized him up.
“You don’t have a trail boss, do you?”
“No, but—”
Lightning speed brought Mac’s S&W out. He swung it around and laid the barrel alongside the man’s temple. He went down like a tall tree sawed down in the forest. Mac put his boot in the middle of the man’s chest to hold him down.
“Then I’ll be your trail boss, and I’ve given you an order. Disobey and . . .” He let them imagine what he would do as he swung his gun around in an arc, covering each man in turn.
“You heard him. Get his cows outta the herd. Come on, come on!”
The Lazy B riders belied their brand as they hurried to get to work. Mac took his foot off the downed man. With his gun still in his hand, Mac glared down at him.
“You going to lie around all day, or are you going to work cutting out those cattle?”
“G-going now, boss.” The man rolled onto hands and knees, then shot off like a stepped-on dog.
Mac returned to the wagon, climbed into the driver’s box, then glanced at Flagg. The man’s eyes were open. A small smile spread until it went ear to ear. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep. Mac took that to mean Flagg had overheard everything and approved of the way he had handled the reluctant cowboys.
About noon, he prepared a meal for his cowboys. As they ate, he listened to their tallies on Rolling J cattle recovered.
“They took off after they brought us our cows,” Rattler said. “It was real odd. They worked, slow as molasses, but they worked. It was almost like they intended to give us back our due but do it real slow.”
As the men reported, Mac kept count. He frowned when he added up the numbers.
“We lost more than a hundred head. How’s that possible? Did you scout the area for stragglers?”
“Of course we did, Mac.” Rattler looked disgusted. “We’re not greenhorns. No offense.”
“They did a piss-poor job of cutting the cattle,” said another cowboy. “And I swear their herd was tiny.”
“Tiny.” Mac tried to remember seeing the extent of the Lazy B herd. “Rattler, you jump on your horse and run it hard to the north. Come back when you see the Lazy B herd.”
He finished serving the meal and began cleaning up when Rattler returned. The man’s tanned face was fiery red with anger.
“Boss, they hit the trail with their main herd at dawn or before. They must have made off with those hundred head we couldn’t find.”
“So they’ve got almost a half day’s start on us. Weed wanted to dicker with Flagg about reaching Abilene first.”
“That’d slice off half the money we’d get for every head,” protested Rattler. “The earlier we get to the railroad, the more we get.”
“We’ve been snookered,” Mac said. “They not only stole some of our cattle, they stole a march on us.”
“We can overtake them. If we get goin’ now, we can catch up and give ’em what for.” Rattler slapped his sidearm to show what he meant.
Mac had had enough gunfighting to last a lifetime. Flagg was in a bad way, and he had to do the job of trail boss and almost everything else. The only bright spot was being able to order the others to ride night herd in his stead. The downside to that was doctoring Flagg. He was hesitant to leave the chuckwagon and his patient for too long.
“Rest the herd for another half day. I’ll go scouting. While I’m out finding us a decent trail, I’ll be thinking on the matter.”
“You can’t let them beat us to Abilene. You can’t, Mac.” Rattler got even redder in the face as his anger rose again.
Mac slapped him on the shoulder and said, “That’s not going to happen. I don’t know how we’ll do it, but we’ll be there watching those miserable snakes in the grass coming into the rail yard. You wait and see.”
This mollified Rattler, but as Mac drove the chuckwagon out to scout the trail for a five- or six-mile travel day, he wondered how he could deliver on the promise.
* * *
He felt as if he had been on the trail all day, though his pocket watch told him it was less than three hours. Mac looked over his shoulder now and then to see how Flagg fared. The trail boss moaned and rolled about, showing he was still alive. That heartened Mac but made the trip seem even longer. Hunting for smoother terrain so he wouldn’t bounce Flagg all over the wagon bed required more concentration and took him away from scouting a route for the herd.
Mac was so occupied with Flagg that he rattled up a low rise before he saw the curl of white smoke ahead. He halted and stared down the slight incline to a spot beside a creek where half a dozen Indians camped. Reaching for his gun, he knew he was in big trouble if they decided to come after him. Fighting rather than running was his only way out.
Then he hit on a third way, other than opening fire or turning tail. Neither of those promised to work well since they outnumbered him and, with their ponies rested, could easily overtake him.
Mac stood in the driver’s box and waved, then called to them.
“Hello! Can I come down?”
The Indians crowded together and talked. One rose from around their campfire and motioned for Mac to join them.
None of the others went for weapons or even glanced toward bows and arrows stacked nearby. As Mac slowly made his way down the slope, he saw that the Indians had two rifles among them. He had more to fear from the knives at their belts than he did longer-range weapons—so of course he drove right down to them.
He hopped down and waited.
“You are cattleman,” the standing Indian said. Mac tried to make out the tribe. They weren’t Comanche. The Five Civilized Tribes in Indian Territory were well settled and didn’t roam around the plains.
“Osage?” That reaction was one of distaste. “Shawnee?” This produced a more positive reaction. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He thrust out his hand, then pulled it back when the Indian made no move to shake. “You’re right. I’m trail boss for a herd going to Abilene.”
“Iron horses there.”
“That’s the reason we’re going.” Mac hesitated, then asked, “Do you know the fastest way there if I have to drive the herd?”
“Cattle?”
“Texas longhorns,” he confirmed.
This set off a long dialogue among the Indians. After some discussion, their leader nodded.
“We know quick way. Faster than on trail there.” He pointed to the west
, where the Lazy B herd had to be traveling. Swinging around, he pointed northeast. “There. Faster.”
“That’s not where Abilene is.”
“Faster.” The Shawnee dropped to one knee and sketched a map in the dirt.
“Would you scout for us and show the route?”
This produced more discussion. Their leader shook his head.
“Map, no scout. You give us cattle.”
That moved the discussion in a different direction. For more than half an hour, Mac dickered with them and settled on giving the Shawnee ten head. In return, they let him make a map of the route. The only paper Mac had turned out to be the wanted poster he had taken from the Lewiston marshal’s office. It made him uneasy using the back to draw the map, but he decided it put the poster to a better use. “Are you sure about the direction?” Mac again felt uneasy that this route took them off at an angle away from Abilene.
“Our trail. You use Shawnee Trail. Know country.” The Shawnee leader pounded on his chest with a fist and pointed to the northeast.
“Done. I will bring cattle to thank you for this.” He held up the map. All the Indians nodded and whispered to each other. It made him wonder if he had been lied to, but he had to take the chance.
It was time to roll the dice. He climbed onto the chuckwagon and headed back to the herd. Rattler had arrived at the spot they had agreed on at breakfast and impatiently looked around for the chuckwagon—and his noon meal.
Mac creaked to a halt and motioned Rattler over.
“Cut out ten head of cattle.”
“Which ones? You dealing them for something we can use?”
“I am. I have a map that’ll get us to Abilene ahead of the Lazy B herd.” He pulled out the wanted poster and hastily turned it over so Rattler couldn’t see the picture. “I got this from some Shawnee Indians. They have the trail named after them, so they should know all the shortcuts.”
“I’ll have the boys cut out some of them Lazy B branded steers. They’re scrawny little things, anyway.”
“That’s fine.” Mac jumped down, checked on Flagg, and then began opening the drawers and getting out his kettles to prepare the noon meal. “You see that the Indians get the cattle. You personally. I don’t want to make them mad at us.”
“It wasn’t a war party or you’d be missin’ your scalp. That means a huntin’ party. You givin’ them that many cows will feed their village all winter long. You sure you want me to cut out that many?”
“Do it. Now get moving or you won’t get back before all the food’s gone.”
He watched Rattler hustle off. Had he done the right thing by getting a map from a band of Indians he had never met before and had no information about? It hadn’t occurred to him that the Shawnee were a hunting party rather than on the warpath until Rattler mentioned it. Why should they offer any help to drovers crossing what had been their hunting ground for a long time?
Mac pushed such worries aside as he fixed up a stew for the cowboys, then used Flagg to test how good it was. All the man had to say was a weak, “Needs salt.”
Mac decided he was right and poured in a handful of salt.
He hoped he was right about the new trail cutting off time from the final push into Abilene, the railhead, and top dollar for the Rolling J longhorns.
CHAPTER 28
“That’s the bend in the river,” Mac said, moving the map around so it lined up with the terrain they crossed.
“Mac, we been travelin’ a whole day, and we’re goin’ away from Abilene. I swear, it’s back there.” Rattler pointed to the northwest.
“I’m not Compass Jack.”
“Thank the saints for that,” Rattler said. “The H Bar H outfit’s a tough one to work for, and they don’t have a cook near as good as you.”
“I guessed that when he offered me a job.” Mac folded the map and put it back into his pocket. More than once, he had almost exposed the back side to Rattler and the others, showing his poorly rendered photograph. None of the Rolling J cowboys would turn him in for the paltry reward, but he wanted to keep them moving toward the railroad without any conflicts of loyalty.
He hoped they were going in the right direction. He couldn’t think of any reason for the Shawnee Indians to direct him on a wild goose chase, although Rattler and the others probably could give him a long list. He accepted all that, but in this world, you had to believe somebody sometime. Why he chose to believe the Indians wasn’t something he could put his finger on.
The hunting party had been delighted to get the cattle. He hadn’t seen a hint that they felt guilt over giving him the wrong directions. If anything, there had been pride in giving information others lacked. At least he hoped that was what he read on their faces.
“Go on and ford the river,” he ordered Rattler. “It looks rough going for another couple days. Then it ought to be a race into town.”
“You get that from the map?” Rattler shook his head sadly. “I think we’d better get used to the idea of takin’ the herd all the way to St. Louis. That’s the direction we’re goin’.”
“Get to the herd. I’ve got to set up camp for the night.”
“You get across the river in the wagon without any help?”
“Flagg can help. He’s doing better.”
“About that, Mac. The map ain’t the only thing you’re not seein’ right. Flagg don’t have any color in his face, and his hands shake.”
“He took a bullet through the gut. It’ll take a spell, maybe a long one, before he’s up and kicking again.”
“You’re seein’ things that ain’t there.” Rattler sighed. “Never mind. I ain’t arguing with you ’bout anything. I’ll get to point on the herd and start them across the river in a half hour or so.” Rattler rode away.
Mac watched him go, then made sure Flagg was resting comfortably. Only then did he climb onto the driver’s box and start his team pulling toward the river. He had studied the banks earlier and found a rocky spot that showed where others had crossed in the past few days. He wasn’t a good enough tracker to know if the tracks were from shod horses or Indian ponies. Finding a scrubby tree on the far side, he fixed his gaze on that as a goal and got the team pulling.
The horses balked, then found some purchase on the slippery river bottom. As the current caught the chuckwagon, he began slipping downstream. Keeping the tree in sight, he guided the team back, partially against the current. Flagg moaned in the rear of the wagon, but Mac had his hands full with the team. Halfway. Then the horses got better purchase and pulled hard, wanting to be out of the cold, running water. With a final surge, the horses dragged the chuckwagon onto dry land again.
Mac let out a whoop of joy. The map had shown this ford. It had given him the trail up to this point and hadn’t been wrong. From this point on, it would be rough for five or ten miles, then easy going.
“Easy going,” he said aloud. “We’ll get to Abilene before those crooks working for the Lazy B.”
He gave the team a once-over, checked Flagg, and began to lay out a trail for the herd. The ground turned rocky and rough, almost overturning the chuckwagon in one stretch. He gritted his teeth and plowed on, too stubborn to admit the Indians had sold him a bill of goods. By the time he was ready to stop, he worried that the wagon wouldn’t hold up much longer. More than once, he feared a broken wheel or cracked axle.
He rolled to a level if rocky spot and began fixing the evening meal for the men. It would be some time before the herd arrived because of the rugged terrain. Mac sighed as he fixed the biscuits. He had about run out of dough. No more yeast, the flour was close to being all used up, and there wasn’t a lot more left in the larder. If he wanted to give the men the biscuits they enjoyed so, he would have to turn back and find the more traveled part of the West Shawnee Trail into Abilene. That would put them a week to ten days behind the Lazy B and most likely many of the other herds. Selling the cattle would be a disaster, and Mr. Jefferson would barely break even, if Mac’s figures were right.
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But at least he would have delivered the herd.
“Not bad,” he said to himself, “for a first-time, greenhorn trail boss who has no idea what he’s doing.”
As the biscuits came out of the Dutch oven, he looked up to see Rattler and several others riding up.
“Get the food before the varmints do,” he called. More than once, he wished he had a dinner bell to properly summon the men to chow down. That had been the farthest thing from his mind when Lem Carson had recruited him to be cook back in Waco.
Now it would have been fitting, traditional, something he would have enjoyed using.
“Biscuits! It’s about time we had something to celebrate,” Rattler said. He was first in line and had two biscuits downed before he got to the main course. “I do declare, Mac, I doubted you. No more.”
“Why’s that?” Mac started to tell the men he had decided to turn back, but another eight rode up. Better to tell as many as possible once and not let gossip spread. It was his job as trail boss, after all, to keep the men informed.
“They’re beddin’ down the herd just over the rise.” Rattler laughed, the sound building and coming out full-throated. “As if there’s anywhere in Kansas that counts as a rise.”
The newcomers lined up for chow, and Mac decided the time was right. The men left to tend the herd would be in to eat within an hour.
“I’ve got an announcement to make,” he started.
“No need to get all long-winded,” Rattler said. “We already know.”
“How do you know?”
“We got eyes. You may be the scout, but we saw it with our own eyes.”
“What did you see?” Mac was too confused to think straight.
“The tracks. Two or three of the boys said they recognized this stretch of tracks. They wanted to keep goin’, but I thought you had a reason for stoppin’ so soon.”
“To eat. To feed you and let the cattle graze.” He still didn’t understand what Rattler was talking about.
“They can graze plenty in the fattening pens. That’s what they’re for. Good biscuits. Any left?” Rattler went to poke about in the Dutch oven, hunting for the doughy lumps.
The Chuckwagon Trail Page 25
