“Fine bunch,” said the stranger conversationally; but his eyes glinted with avarice.
“Yeah,” said Hopalong, also conversationally; but he moved when the stranger moved, and did not miss a motion or a glance.
“Well,” said the stranger, picking up the reins. “We’ll see you on Bender’s Crick. Come on, boys.”
Hopalong rode slowly after them for a hundred yards or so and then smiled as Johnny and Skinny, once more in their saddles, raced forward through the sage, ready to leap into its shelter in an instant. They were not wasting time because their course would lead them to the cavvy, where the cook stood guard. The herd poured on, riders now on both points, both flanks, and back with the drag. Then Hopalong pushed into a lope and cut across to join his wranglers. The three of them rode at speed toward the distant cavvy, to the cook’s vast relief. The dust soared, flattened, and hung; but the herd poured on.
II
The cavvy, well watered all around, were now kept closely bunched. It was more than possible that mounts would be changed more often than usual: if the cattle became hard to handle this would be a certainty.
The long afternoon slowly faded into twilight, the plodding herd still indistinct in the ever–present dust. The stronger cattle, the leaders, had steadily maintained their position at the head of the column, and the size of the drag had increased. The distance from the front rank to the last was twice as long as it had been earlier in the day. Along with the soft thudding of the hoofs and the clicking of horses there now arose a new note, a disturbing one: the lowing of tired and thirsty cattle, its volume slowly but steadily growing.
Hopalong rode in to the cavvy. He was tired, thirsty, and covered with sweat and dust. He removed his saddle and threw it on a fresh horse, his hands moving by instinct alone.
“They got you worried,” said Johnny, his gaze on the dust–streaked face.
“Uhh!” grunted the trail boss. A half–hearted smile broke through the tense expression. “You keep yore thoughts on these hosses,” he said. “Be ready to split th’ cavvy an’ drive half of it on to Bender’s Crick. Then bring ’em back, an’ send on th’ other half.”
“We’ve had drier an’ longer drives than this,” suggested Skinny, for the sake of adding a cheerful note. “This ain’t hardly nothin’.”
“No?” inquired the trail boss, his blue eyes glinting for an instant.
“Shore we have,” said Johnny.
“Trouble with that is that them other drives are all over, an’ this one ain’t,” replied Hopalong wearily.
“Hell, there ain’t nothin’ to worry about,” said Skinny, lying like a loyal rider.
“With a bunch of fake trail cutters hornin’ in to make us trouble?” asked the trail boss. “I’m responsible for a thousan’ head.”
“You figger they’re fakes?” quickly asked Johnny. “If that’s so, then we shoulda put ’em afoot, back there, this noon.”
“I’m figgerin’ on gettin’ water into th’ bellies of these cattle before I put anybody afoot,” retorted Hopalong. “An’ if I have to put anybody afoot, he’ll never ride again.” He swung into the saddle and wheeled. “Well,” he said, peering into the thickening twilight, “they’re movin’ as steady as can be expected. Be our job to keep ’em that way till we hit Bender’s Crick. You boys keep yore thoughts right on this cavvy. Everythin’ depends on it an’ Bender’s Crick.”
“Th’ crick’ll be all right,” said Skinny. “It’s never dry.”
“Shore; but we got to get there with th’ herd,” retorted Hopalong; “an’ it’s a long ways off.”
He rode off toward the streaming, heaving, lowing herd, the dust wrapping it like a shroud. The creak of leather, barely heard above the general noise, located the right point rider for him, and soon Red loomed up in the dim light, his head showing through a swirling opening in the dust. Red was tired, anxious, thirsty, and his throat felt like sandpaper; but he grinned.
“Be a good idear for you to change cayuses about now,” said Hopalong, thinking of the coming darkness. “I’ll take over th’ point for you.”
“You lettin’ them fellers cut this herd, when they could see that every last animal in it has our road brand?” demanded Red with a trace of anger.
“If they cut it, they’ll cut it while it moves,” growled the trail boss, “an’ only them animals that ain’t got our road brand, an’ tallies with th’ brands on their list.”
“But every last head has got a road brand!” protested Red quickly.
“You better get yoreself a fresh hoss,” said Hopalong, moving farther into the dust.
In a surprisingly short time Red returned astride his best horse. He thought that he might need the best before time came to change again. Before he was quite certain just where the trail boss was, that person pushed out toward him.
“All right, Red. I’ll drop back an’ spell th’ others while they shift saddles. A little wind would help.”
“Help?” growled Red. “I got so much dust in my mouth that I spit clay buckshot!”
“Better hold ’em down to that size,” jibed the trail boss. “As long as you can spit a–tall, you ain’t gettin’ no sympathy.”
“Damn fool!” grunted Red and pushed into the thick of it.
Eventually Hopalong reached the left point, found Lanky by hearing his profanity, and bore in toward him.
“All we need now is some lightnin’, or a wolf scent, to send ’em hell–to–lather an’ gone,” growled the point rider.
“I had allus reckoned Billy was th’ grouch of this outfit,” said the trail boss. “Better change cayuses, while you can see how to pick.”
“If we’d get some wind to lift this dust … ” growled Lanky and then shook his head and swore under his breath. “Hell, if we did, it’d shore come from th’ other side.”
“I’m takin’ over th’ point till you get back on a fresh cayuse,” said Hopalong quietly.
“You reckon that bunch of trail cutters will be waitin’ for us up on th’ crick?” asked Lanky.
“Right now I’m thinkin’ about water,” retorted Hopalong.
“Who ain’t?” growled Lanky, and the dust swirled in to fill the gap he made.
The night dragged its weary cycle, and dawn was not more than an hour away. Hard ground had killed the dust blanket, and the trail dipped and wound more and more as it led deeper into the rough, wild country on the Bender’s Creek slope of the watershed. The creek was still miles away, but the chaparral, thickets, and squat scrub timber were promises in themselves and brought cheer to the tired, thirsty, and dust–covered riders who doggedly held the cattle into the semblance of a trail herd. The horns clicked more rapidly, and the lowing had become a continuous swell of sound; but the herd was forging ahead at the same brisk pace, here and there surging and calming down again, and the drag was four times what it had been when the dry creek had been passed. The coolness of the night had aided materially. Everything considered, the trail boss was well satisfied: things could be so much worse. All he had to worry about now was the break, and the stampede when those flaring red nostrils caught the faint but unmistakable scent of water. The run, of course, would stop at the creek, but numbers of injured animals might come from it.
Johnny had returned with the second section of watered saddle horses, and he and Skinny were holding the cavvy in a compact bunch not far from the trail. Again the men changed mounts, eager to have fresh, watered animals under them for the last few hours.
Hopalong was the last to ride up. He picked out a big roan and shifted gear, turning the tired bay into the cavvy.
“Kid,” he said to Johnny, “Skinny can handle th’ cavvy from now on. We’ll be needin’ you with th’ herd. We’re doublin’ th’ point riders an’ lettin’ th’ drag get along by itself. No tellin’ how soon they’ll smell water. Th’ wind’s shifted an’ comin’ straight from th’ crick.”
“Just a few more hours, Hoppy, an’ we’ll be holdin’ aces for our hole
cards,” replied Johnny, smiling. “After that it’ll be sweet an’ easy. No more drives without water after we reach th’ crick.”
“Yeah,” responded Hopalong. “We’ll let ’em lay over a couple of days on th’ crick. After that things’ll be as smooth as bull–butter. Give Lanky a hand, over on left point.”
The wrangler watched his two friends melt into the darkness and smiled gently. Trouble usually looked worse than it really was. Two, three hours from now, and everything would be all right. If there was a place in Bender’s Creek big enough to hold a man he would take a bath.
The thickets pressed in closer. One could see erratic lanes running back in the chaparral until the darkness blotted them out. To the clicking of horns was now added the clatter of hoofs on hard, stony ground. Here and there the rising wind made ghostly movements in the upper twigs of the brush. Here and there some wiser steer raised flaring nostrils to test the air currents. If they broke and stampeded in this thick chaparral section there would be scores injured and missing.
Single riders were on the points now, and their companions were back on the flanks. The constricting thickets drew apart again and fell away on both sides. Hopalong knew this place, knew it well: another mile and the country would be reasonably open, where a stampede would not be so bad. That mile was a hair–trigger affair. More and more animals were testing the wind and beset by a growing restlessness. Then it was past, and every man with the herd heaved a sigh of relief. All right: they were bound to break and run when the water scent struck their nostrils, but every passing minute now robbed the run of just that much danger.
The dark plain grew gray. The light increased swiftly. Mysterious blots of a moment before now stood revealed as clumps of brush and individual sage bushes. The leading cattle raised their heads again and broke into a run, a lumbering, ground–covering run. Open spaces grew in the herd, ever increasing. In a few minutes it was strung out four times its original length. In a few more minutes it was a series of bunches of cattle, running at their best speeds to trace down that scent of water. Even the foot–weary drag showed animation and the same strung–out formation, but on a much smaller scale. All that the riders had to do was—nothing. Let them go. Ten times their number could not change the direction of the cattle now, even if they wished to. Some of the riders, realizing the futility of their efforts, were dropping back to find and drive in any animals which might have become separated from the main herd in the brush. The limping drag plunged doggedly on.
The lead cattle awkwardly popped up over the last rise and poured down the slope to the wide, shallow creek. In a moment scores of hot, tired, and thirsty cattle were standing knee deep in the warm water, flicking it with their noses, plowing it with their tongues. The number steadily grew, and now the riders, leaving the main herd to look after itself, were scouting about over the plain and through the scanty brush, rounding up the stragglers and the footsore, and driving them on to the creek. Noon found the last of the cattle accounted for. The main part of the herd was strung out along the northern bank, placidly feeding; late stragglers and the belated drag still stood in the water, nosing it contentedly and gently bawling.
Hopalong had counted them as well as he could in their strung–out formation and was pretty thoroughly satisfied that he had lost none; to be certain of this he would have to point them as for trail driving and then push them through a narrow opening between two stationary riders. He was debating about doing this when the trail cutters of the day before appeared riding down the trail. He made up his mind at once: no count was necessary right now. He instinctively shook his holsters, glanced around behind him to see where his companions were, and then slowly rode up the trail to meet the newcomers, to meet them well beyond the herd. Leaving the creek and riding swiftly after him were Johnny, Skinny, Pete, Lanky, and Billy. Back at the chuck wagon, the cook and Red were on the far side of the vehicle, more valuable there than twice their number out in the open. The wagon box not only partly hid them, but also provided a solid rest for their rifles.
III
The trail cutter pulled up and raised a hand, palm out. It was the old Indian greeting and meant peace. Hopalong stopped, his suspicious eyes on the group, but his attention was centered upon the leader.
“All accounted for?” asked the trail cutter pleasantly, his gaze flicking to the grazing cattle.
“Yeah,” grunted Hopalong, hearing the nearing hoof beats behind him. “Yeah, all accounted for,” he said, but he was not thinking of cattle.
The trail cutter smiled meaningly.
“Well, they got their bellies full of runnin’, an’ full of water, too. They’ll be easy to handle.”
“We’re doin’ that,” grunted the trail boss.
“Be a good time for us to cut ’em,” said the stranger. He shrugged his shoulders a little, as if admitting that he knew he had a mean job.
“Mebby. Let’s see yore papers,” said Hopalong, riding slowly forward and extending his right arm.
“Shore! They’re all right, all in order; an’ they got one of yore brands on ’em. Better not have no trouble over a few head of cattle. You can’t fight th’ law, except, mebby, in yore own state. This is my state.” He handed over the papers and quietly waited, and again his gaze flicked to the grazing cattle.
“Huh!” muttered the trail boss. “You’ve shore got C 80 on yore list.” He looked up, his eyes blazing. “Last time we come up this trail, we met a cutter, an’ he had a list. What happened to him?”
“He got into trouble an’ left th’ country,” said the present cutter.
“Yeah? Well,” continued Hopalong, “we had th’ same brands then that we got now. He didn’t claim a critter. He didn’t have a single one of our brands on his papers. This C 80 outfit of yourn must be right new?”
“That’s a right good way to explain it,” replied the cutter. “It’s on my list, an’ I’m cuttin’ out C 80 cows.”
Hopalong’s face hardened.
“You know an’ I know that there’s no C 80 in this part of th’ country,” he said slowly, “but, just lettin’ that ride for a minute, every C 80 animal in this herd has our road brand on its skin. Our papers give th’ number of animals in each brand. How you aimin’ to get around them two facts?”
“I’m not th’ one to make no explanations!” snapped the cutter. “But, just for th’ sake of argument, seein’ how much you like to argue, th’ road brands coulda been run on right recent; an’ th’ papers mighta been forged.”
“Shore,” admitted Hopalong, holding down his temper as a trail boss should who had a thousand valuable animals to account for. “Except that th’ road brands we can show all have had time to heal; an’ that th’ papers bear th’ state seal.”
“We might as well start cuttin’ right now,” replied the trail cutter, sensing that his men were spreading out behind him. “I’m cuttin’ out an’ takin’ all th’ C 80 animals you got. You can’t git away with local cattle that have joined up with yore herd.”
“Hosses, too?” inquired Hopalong, his voice suddenly velvety. “We got some of them in th’ C 80 mark; an’ some fool puncher mighta scratched that brand on our chuck wagon som’ers. You reckon mebby it strayed into our herd?”
“This ain’t no time to get funny!” snapped the trail cutter, his red face growing redder.
“Just what I’m thinkin’ myself,” retorted Hopalong, shoving the papers in a pocket. “If you can find any C 80 animal in this herd without our road brand, you take it along with you, an’ then me an’ some of th’ boys will go along with you to take a look at this spang new C 80 ranch. It’s yore move, either way, stranger.”
The short line of men behind the trail cutter surged, hands dropping swiftly. Hopalong’s left, and deadlier, hand dropped and came up again, smoke bursting from it. It was the draw which was to make him famous. The bearded rider facing him on his left sagged in the saddle and let the Colt fall to earth. The .44 had momentarily paralyzed him. The still smoking gun no
w looked squarely at the trail cutter’s vest.
“Go back th’ way you came,” said the trail boss evenly.
The cutter’s face was dark with rage, and his tight lips opened a little. The muzzle of the .44 did not waver.
“You know what you’ve just done?” he demanded ominously.
“Yeah—shot a skunk. Don’t force me to make it two.”
“You’ve shot an officer of th’ law in th’ performance of his duty!”
“Mebby,” grunted Hopalong. “I’m gamblin’ on him not bein’ an officer. You played yore hand too hard. Clear outa here, an’ do it pronto.”
“I don’t see that I can do anythin’ else, with trail rowdies an’ desperadoes. Gimme my papers.”
“I’m keepin’ ’em,” said Hopalong, smiling a little. “I’ve took a great fancy to ’em. Clear out.”
“You’ve shore got yoreself into a mess!” snapped the trail cutter.
“You’ll be in a bigger one if you don’t clear out. Git!”
The trail cutter glanced at the punchers backing up the trail boss, and then at the wagon, where two Sharps rifles were being held on a steady rest. He had not noticed the rifles before, and the sight was a little shock. It also was the determining factor, and he jerked at his horse, wheeling swiftly. The cutting–out operations could wait until a more favorable time. His companions copied his movements and swung in behind him on their way up the trail. Their language drifted back and made the trail boss smile again.
Lanky pushed up his hat and scratched under it, his grin slowly fading.
“We better git outa this country damn quick,” he said, glancing toward the west, where a state line lay not many miles away. “Any water over that way?”
“Don’t know, an’ don’t care,” replied the trail boss, reading his friend’s thoughts. “We’ll let th’ herd feed an’ rest up today an’ tomorrow.”
“Yeah?” asked Lanky wonderingly. His companions also were surprised: they were in a tight place; but they were Bar 20 men, and they turned slowly to ride back to the cattle. Nevertheless, interfering with a trail cutter in the discharge of his duties was a serious business.
Trail Dust Page 2
