The Chuckwagon Trail

by William W. Johnstone

  Mac pressed close and asked in a low voice, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The herd. We’re almost there. Abilene’s not more than five miles off. None of us thought this shortcut you took would amount to a hill of beans, and here you landed us in the rail yards, five days sooner than if we’d followed the old trail.”

  Speechless, Mac stared at Rattler, thinking he was joshing him. Neither he nor any of the others had that sly look of putting one over on him. Their joy was real, as was their bragging about what they’d do when they got paid. Mac left them around the buffalo-chip fire and hiked to the top of the rise. The herd shifted restlessly as most of the cattle ate and others started falling asleep.

  In the distance, he heard a steam whistle. Echoes of steel wheels clattering against tracks came a short time later. In the twilight, he saw a tower of black smoke from a stack. Dancing fireflies of embers darted about as the distant train sped westward.

  Toward Abilene. He had done it. He had brought the herd to market.

  * * *

  “It’s a good thing we’re almost there,” Rattler said. “I can’t stand another breakfast without biscuits.”

  “I’ll drive on in and be sure the yard’s ready to take Rolling J cattle,” Mac said. He looked anxiously into the rear of the chuckwagon, where Flagg lay unmoving. He had hardly moaned all night long, and he burned up with fever. “I’ll get Flagg to a doctor, too. He’s in a bad way and getting worse.”

  “He’s a tough old bird. He’ll do all right.” Rattler said the words without conviction.

  “You bring the herd in, and we’ll celebrate.” Mac wasn’t even sure he remembered how to celebrate anything. Life on the trail had been so fraught with danger and disappointment, being free of it seemed impossible.

  “See you in Abilene, old son.” Rattler touched the brim of his hat in salute, then let out a yell that rolled across the prairie. Others in the outfit took it up. They all knew the end of the drive was nigh.

  Mac settled down in the driver’s box and started the last few miles into Abilene. The sound and smell of a city devoted to shipping cattle rose quickly. The trains huffed and puffed. Even the horses felt the energy and spirit and began pulling faster. He reached the town sooner than he expected.

  He patted his pocket with the map given him by the Shawnee Indians out on the prairie. That had been the best deal ever made, ten cattle for a week saved on the trail.

  “You up to doing some dickering, Flagg? They know you and you can get top dollar.” He looked back at the trail boss. Flagg was even paler, if that was possible. He thrashed about weakly as fever dreams danced in his head.

  Mac saw the road branching one way to the rail yards and the other into town. He never slowed as he took the road into town and began asking everyone he saw along the way where he could find a doctor. Selling the herd was important. A man’s life was more important, especially when it was Patrick Flagg’s.

  He found the doctor’s office at the edge of town. Not bothering to see if the doctor was in, he heaved Flagg over his shoulder. The man was as light as a feather. Mac went to the door and kicked at it a couple times to announce his presence.

  “Got a patient, Doc. You in? Is anybody inside?”

  The door opened. A man hardly a year older than Mac himself stood there. He tried to grow a mustache. The few bristles showed it wasn’t too successful. Worse, the man’s sandy hair was already receding, giving a curious young-old look to him. He peered at Mac through thick glasses.

  “Bring him on in and put him on the table. You’re lucky I’m still here. Miz Rodriguez is about due to deliver.” He snorted. “Has been for two weeks. I wish she’d get done with it. I’ve got a bet that it’ll be a boy.” The doctor peered at Mac. “The Rodriguezes have four daughters already. Poor Paco deserves a son after all he’s been through.”

  “This is my trail boss. He’s been shot.”

  “He was shot some time ago, wasn’t he? That’s one powerful fever.” He stripped away the bandages and frowned as he poked at Flagg’s wound. Mac grimaced. He hadn’t seen the green growing around the bullet hole before. The doctor called, “Elise, fill the tub with cold water. I’ve got a fever to bring down fast.” He never looked up as he continued probing the wound. “Elise is my missus and acts as my nurse.”

  He heaved Flagg onto his side and examined the exit wound in his back.

  “How long’s he been like this?”

  “He was shot almost a week ago.”

  “And you’ve bounced him around in that wagon ever since. Amazing. This man’s constitution is pure steel.”

  “What can I do to help? I’ve been tending him since he was shot.”

  “Well, you can—” The doctor recoiled when Flagg reached up and grabbed Mac’s arm in a strong grip.

  “Mac, get to the rail yard,” Flagg rasped. “You want to deal with Ready Reedy. He’ll give you an honest deal. Ready Reedy. He—”

  “You settle down now,” the doctor said, prying Flagg’s hand free. “We’ll do what we can for you.” He looked at Mac. His expression spoke volumes. There wasn’t much to be done for Flagg. But the doctor had said he had a strong constitution.

  In that Mac took hope.

  “I’ll be back to let you know how the deal went,” he promised. “Ready Reedy. I won’t be long.”

  “So long, Mac. You’re a helluva cook. Scout. Trail boss. Go. Go.” Flagg collapsed onto the table, eyes closed. Only the fluttering of hie eyelids showed any life remained.

  Mac hesitated, then saw there wasn’t any more he could do. He owed it to Mr. Jefferson to get a decent price for the cattle, and since the trail boss wasn’t able, he would act as Flagg’s assistant. As he left, the doctor and his wife were wrestling a limp Patrick Flagg into a bathtub sloshing over with water to bring down his fever.

  All the way to the rail yard, he told himself Flagg would be fine. Get a good deal. Ready Reedy. Get a good deal from the cattle broker and Flagg would snap right back to his old self.

  “Ready Reedy,” he called to men hanging on the fence of a cattle chute. They prepared a pen full of longhorns to go into a cattle car on a siding.

  “Yonder. Kansas Range and Cattle Company.”

  “Much obliged.” He parked the chuckwagon beside the office and took a deep breath. His job was almost over. He opened the door and stared. His mouth dropped open as he heard a familiar voice say, “That’s him, Marshal. That’s the rustler I told you about. His name’s Mackenzie, and he’s a dangerous one. You be careful arresting him.”

  Deke Northrup smirked as the marshal came forward, revolver drawn and ready to fire.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Hold on, Marshal. I haven’t done anything.

  What’s the charge?”

  Even as the words left Mac’s lips, he knew whatever trumped-up charges Northrup had filed against him amounted to nothing compared with murder down in New Orleans. Without thinking, he pressed his hand against his coat pocket where the wanted posters with his pictures rested.

  “What’s that?” the lawman snapped. “What do you have in that pocket? Pull it out real slow.”

  With the marshal’s six-shooter trained on him, Mac wasn’t in a position to do anything else. He felt anger boiling inside as Northrup looked on with his smug attitude.

  “It’s a map made by the leader of a Shawnee band I came across. They helped me to get here ahead of some other herds.” He carefully drew out the wanted poster. He had folded it several times, with part of his face showing.

  The marshal grabbed it from his hand.

  “The back side, Marshal. That’s where I drew the map.”

  The marshal carefully smoothed it out and laid it on the table. One corner curled up. Mac vowed to throw down on the lawman if he saw the reward for the man Northrup accused of being a rustler.

  “It’s a map. I recognize this river. And here’s Slowpoke Gulch. You cross that with a herd?”

  “I did. Once past it, gett
ing into Abilene was easy.”

  “This only shows he came with a stolen herd. It doesn’t prove anything else,” Northrup said. “Look, Marshal, I filed charges against him and Patrick Flagg a week back. You know all the details about how them and their gang stole my herd.”

  “Liar!” Mac started for Northrup, only to have the marshal’s gun jammed into his belly.

  “I have witnesses. Fontaine told you the same story.”

  Without realizing it, Mac ran his fingers over his upper arm where Fontaine and his cronies had strung him up like a side of beef.

  “Thumbs Fontaine and two others robbed me. They robbed me after they poured salt into my flour. That got them and Northrup fired.”

  “So you admit you were with Northrup’s herd?” The marshal squinted with one eye.

  “He worked for Mr. Jefferson and was only a cowboy with the Rolling J. He’s not the owner.”

  “He made the claim that he was.”

  The other man in the room, who had been silent until now, spoke up. “I’ve been a broker here in Abilene for years. The Rolling J owner’s a steady customer of mine and has decent cattle, but I’ve never seen either of these men before, Marshal.”

  “Contact Mr. Jefferson. He owns the Rolling J. He’ll tell you.” Even as Mac spoke, he knew that wouldn’t accomplish anything, even if Jefferson replied. Lem Carson had hired him, not the rancher. Jefferson didn’t know him from Adam.

  “That’s a sure way to keep us all in town for a month,” Northrup protested. “There’s no reliable telegraph to Waco, not after the war.” Northrup looked proud of himself for that one. “Besides, this one’s a youngster. The real criminal is Flagg. He’s the mastermind behind the rustling.”

  “He’s being tended with a bullet in his gut,” Mac said, speaking before he realized it might be better to keep quiet. If Northrup thought Flagg was waiting for him, he’d be more skittish and might even spill the truth by accident. Knowing the trail boss was in a bad way only added to the man’s arrogance.

  “Good riddance. Now, Marshal, are you going to throw this rustler into jail or not?”

  “I can’t do that on your say-so, Northrup. I know, you got witnesses, but that doesn’t mean a thing to me. I need a bill of sale, a letter from this Jefferson fellow. Mr. Reedy knows him, so if I see a letter I’ll take that as evidence of who’s running this herd for the Rolling J.”

  “The herd’s just now coming in,” Reedy said, looking out the door. “I see the brand.”

  “Get them all logged in and tallied up, Mr. Reedy,” Mac said. “Did we beat the Lazy B to the train?”

  “Lazy B? I don’t know that ranch. I haven’t heard of other brokers taking in a herd, either. Only one got here before you.”

  “We need to get a price so you can send the cattle off to Chicago,” Mac said.

  “Hold on! He’s not the one who can sell the cattle. I am. Arrest this damned rustler, Marshal. I demand it!”

  “Cool down, Northrup. I don’t remember a dustup like this before. I need to talk to Judge Francis about what to do. Until then, those cows don’t go nowhere. They don’t leave, either back down the trail or off to Chicago. Understand, Mr. Reedy?”

  “Plain as you can make it. From the look of them, they need some time in the fattening pens. The trail’s run off a lot of weight.”

  Mac said, “We’ve gone through tornados and hailstorms and—”

  “Don’t mean a thing, Marshal. He stole them. I don’t care what he went through bringing my cattle to market.” Northrup stood with his chin jutting out. Mac wanted to take a swing. One good shot to the jaw would knock the lying rustler out cold.

  He held back, knowing that would get him into trouble and strengthen Northrup’s claim to the herd.

  “I’ll do some asking around. Neither of you gents leave town, hear?”

  The marshal started to scoop up the map, but Mac grabbed it. They had a small tug of war over it.

  “This is mine, Marshal. It doesn’t have any bearing on ownership.”

  “Reckon not.” The lawman released the wanted poster. Mac hastily jammed it into his pocket and out of sight. He vowed to burn it the first chance he had. Only a strange vanity had made him keep such damning evidence this long.

  “You keep those thieves away from my cows after you get them into the fattening pens,” Northrup said. He left, making a point of shoving Mac out of his way.

  “Keep calm, youngster,” advised Ready Reedy. “We’ll get this worked out.”

  “I’m the Rolling J trail boss with Flagg all laid up.”

  “If you’d ridden in and Northrup wasn’t muddying up the waters, I’d take you at your word. You seem honest enough.” Reedy sniffed. “More’n the likes of him. But you heard the marshal. The herd’s impounded until the judge rules who’s allowed to sell it.”

  Mac added, “And who’s allowed to take the money.”

  He stepped out into the bright Kansas day. The cowboys had gathered around, looking expectant. Telling them the truth would only cause big trouble. Rattler had a hair trigger, and the rest weren’t far behind after all the hardships they had endured on the trail. Knowing that Deke Northrup was trying to cheat them out of their pay would cause a ruckus unlike anything Abilene had ever seen before.

  “I need to do some more negotiating before the herd’s sold.”

  “When do we get our money, Mac?” Rattler spoke for the rest.

  “First, the longhorns need to get some weight put back on. That’ll get us better money. You fellows ’bout ran their legs off, the ones you didn’t eat.” He tried for some joking. He got a smile or two. They wanted their pay. He didn’t blame them.

  “It won’t take long. I promise you,” he said.

  “How’s Flagg doin’?” Rattler asked. Only a few cowboys had remained after being told their pay wasn’t forthcoming.

  “Not too good. The doctor’s looking at him. He had a high fever, but dunking in ice water’s supposed to help with that.”

  “Gettin’ shot’s just the thing he needed. That’s the first bath Flagg’ll have had since we left Waco.” Rattler laughed at the joke. Mac smiled weakly. The memory of how Flagg had told him to get the herd sold lingered.

  He wasn’t sure how he would tell the trail boss they might lose ownership of the herd. That it was Deke Northrup attempting to pull off the theft made it even worse. He wished Flagg had listened to him when he said that Northrup was pure poison, but keeping the herd moving back then had been more important than running Northrup and his gang to ground and finishing them off.

  The more important matter to attend to now was proving he had authority to sell the herd. Mac had no idea how he would do that. Even if Flagg waltzed in right then, Reedy said he didn’t know him. The cattle broker was well known, but that didn’t mean he knew all his customers. With most ranchers changing their cowboys from year to year, the only one who would have been known was Lem Carson. And he was dead.

  “What are you going to do, Mac? We don’t have money for a real bender, and none of the saloons in this town will run a tab for a cowboy.”

  “Smart businessmen, them,” Mac said. He watched as more cattle were driven up the chute into freight cars. “Those must be from the herd that beat us to town.”

  “The H Bar H,” Rattler said. “I saw the brand.”

  “Do tell.” Mac rubbed his chin. “Maybe I ought to drop in on Compass Jack Bennett and congratulate him for getting here ahead of us.”

  “Cadge a drink from him. He took quite a shine to you.” With that, Rattler wandered off to join the others from the Rolling J.

  “He did take a shine to me, didn’t he? He offered me a job as cook.” Mac walked fast to the corral and climbed up next to a cowboy counting the longhorns as they were loaded onto the freight car.

  “I’m looking for Compass Jack. Where’s he hanging out right now?”

  The cowboy he spoke to jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  “In the railroad office. He�
�s always doing a new deal.” The cowboy looked him over. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

  “Our paths crossed on the trail. Thanks for the information.” Mac hopped down and found the railroad office. He sucked in his breath. If this didn’t work, he had no idea how to prove ownership of the herd. He went into the office.

  Compass Jack sat with his feet up on a desk, glass of whiskey in hand. Across from him sat a man with a matching glass. Between them on the desk sat a half-full bottle of liquor.

  “Can I help you?” asked the man behind the desk. Neither of them dropped his feet to the floor.

  “Soon, I hope, if you’re the shipping agent. Right now, I need to ask Compass Jack a question.”

  “Jack, you’ve gone too far this time. Using my office to do your business? I should charge you.”

  “You do, Ned,” Compass Jack drawled. “Triple the going rate, if what I hear’s true.”

  “Naw, only half that.” The railroad agent lifted his glass in salute and downed the whiskey. He poured another shot as he waited to see what was unfolding in his office.

  “Do you know me?” Mac asked.

  “Now that’s an unexpected question. Hell, yes, I know you. You’re Flagg’s cook. And you can argue with the best of ’em and win. I know. You talked me out of a nice profit.”

  “Flagg’s laid up over at the doctor’s office.”

  “Too bad. So?” Compass Jack put his glass down carefully on the edge of the desk. “There’s not a whole lot I can do.”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything on that score. I need something else from you. I need you to go to Ready Reedy and identify me as being the legitimate trail boss for the Rolling J herd. After Flagg got shot, he appointed me.”

  “So I can’t ask him about that? Is that the problem?”

  “The problem is Deke Northrup.” Mac carefully laid out the way Northrup had lied and what had to be done so he wouldn’t steal the herd—and do it legally.

  “You want me to tell Reedy I know you from the trail and that Northrup got fired?”

  “He tried to get a job with you. You turned him down.”