Behind him Johnny heard a voice raised in song, telling Susannah not to cry. He wondered why anyone should feel like singing in all the dust and heat, and then he grinned as the question answered itself: Billy Williams was glad to get away from the smother of dust which he had so long endured as drag rider. Misery, too, is comparative.
Again Johnny turned around in the saddle, this time all the way around, and rested one hand on the back of his horse. He tried to pierce the thick dust cloud for a glimpse of the drag, which was now getting along on its own, and then gave it up. The dust was like a curtain. However, he did see a vague figure rising and falling in the fog, and he replied to the cheery wave. Billy’s song continued uninterrupted, and the herd pushed on, heads bobbing, hips and shoulders rising and falling, and the imponderable dust blanketing everything. Thirty dollars a month and found; constant discomfort, potential dangers ever present, double and treble tricks with the herd instead of sleeping the short nights through when stormy weather threatened. But it got into a man’s blood, crept among the fibers of his being. Johnny himself began to sing Billy’s air; but the words he chose cannot be put into the record.
Over east of the slowly moving herd the trail boss, a mere youth himself, jogged silently along beside his silent companion, who was another youth. Now and again one of the two would pivot at the waist and look searchingly behind them over the shimmering plain.
“I don’t reckon they’ll be botherin’ us today,” said the trail boss, grinning widely. “I busted their guns, an’ they got nothin’ to ride.”
“Then why you lookin’ behind you?” jibed Red Connors.
Hopalong sighed.
“Because I got this damn herd on my hands,” he answered. The weight of responsibility rested squarely on his shoulders. “I wish Buck would meet us at Bulltown an handle th’ money part of it hisself.”
Red nodded and absent–mindedly stroked the lean stock of the Sharps rifle bobbing before his knee. The money part consisted of taking care of a draft and being certain that it was in proper order; or the handling and carrying of money. A possibility for future trouble popped up in Red’s mind, and he chuckled. A thousand dollars in silver would weigh sixty–two and one half pounds,[1] which any southern cowman knew. This herd, delivered into the shipping pens, would mean in the neigborhood of twenty thousand dollars. He gave up the mental arithmetic and chuckled again.
“Suppose they pay you in hard money?” he brightly asked, his grin threatening the safety of his ears.
“Suppose you go to hell!” growled his companion indignantly. “Ain’t I got trouble enough now, without you pilin’ it on?”
“Boy, wouldn’t that old wagon jingle goin’ home?” pursued Red with relish.
Hopalong turned in the saddle and looked backward and then eased around again. Red looked at him and laughed.
“Takin’ care of th’ money already, huh?” he prodded. “Thought you said you busted all their guns an’ turned loose their cayuses?”
“Shut up!” snapped Hopalong. “That feller Job had his boils, but, by Gawd, he didn’t have you!”
Mile after weary mile jolted along behind them, and then Red saw the chuck wagon pop into sight as it rolled over the crest of a distant rise.
“I’ve been on a couple of hellbenders, myself,” he admitted; “but cook shore wins th’ prize. When he put his hat on this mornin’ he held it a foot above his head an’ then lowered it plumb slow an’ gentle.” His sudden burst of laughter startled the horses.
Hopalong swore under his breath.
“Th’ damn jughead!” he snapped. “Lemme tell you that I figger to bear down hard on any man in this outfit that takes a drink of hard liquor before we get home ag’in!” His growl drifted into silence.
“There you go!” snorted Red indignantly. “All dressed up in yore eagle feathers an’ wampum! You shoulda brought yore Sunday school along to trail these steers!” He glared and continued almost without taking breath: “You can start bearin’ down on me any time you want, for I shore aim to drink some hard liquor right pronto after we turn these animals loose at Bulltown!”
“Oh, is that so?”
“Yes, that’s so!”
“I can wait till you start!” snapped the trail boss.
“Suit yoreself!” retorted Red.
“You sound more like yoreself now!” sneered the trail boss.
“An’ you’ll mebby find that I’ll act more like myself when you start bearin’ down onto me!”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah!” snapped Red.
Hopalong snorted and then stood up in his stirrups, the better to see. He looked straight ahead, long and searchingly.
“There’s a branch trail comes in, up yonder,” he said. “So far we’ve had lots of room an’ ain’t been crowded.”
Red nodded his agreement to both statements. Their herd had seemed to be the only one on the trail, but he knew that this was just the luck of the spacing. Cattle stretched ahead of them almost to the Canadian line and behind them to the Gulf Coast, all moving, all sending the dust aloft.
“We’ll be comin’ into dust that ain’t our own,” he said, also peering ahead.
“Yeah,” agreed his companion.
Again a period of silence. They dipped down into the little depression between the two rises and then rode slowly up the farther slope. At the crest they drew rein.
“If it wasn’t for th’ heat waves I’d figger that was dust,” said the trail boss; “an’ there ain’t no wind, he added significantly.”
“No wind a–tall,” grunt Red. “If it’s dust, it’s being stirred up by hoofs,” he said and rode forward at the side of his friend.
They gradually edged over toward the herd, which moved over the hot plain like some huge, varicolored worm. Then Hopalong said something out of the side of his mouth and pushed ahead at a lope. Red looked up the trail and forthwith spurred to overtake his friend. A solitary rider was coming down it, an animated blob in a little cloud of dust.
They passed the herd and kept on riding, and the stranger pulled up at the side of the trail to wait for them. He was smiling, but they were not. He raised a hand in salute, but they ignored it. The Red saw a paper sticking out of a pocket in the stranger’s vest and swore.
“Trail cutter! Great Gawd, ain’t they got nothin’ else in this part of th’ country?”
Hopalong ignored the outburst, nodded to the solitary horseman and stopped at his side. The trail cutter’s gaze had flicked to the brands on the punchers’ horses and away again.
“Howdy,” he said, with a smile.
“Howdy,” answered Hopalong without friendliness.
“What’s yore road brand?” asked the stranger carelessly.
“Circle 4,” grunted Red shortly.
The cutter nodded, offered his tobacco sack and papers to his two companions, and in turn rolled a cigarette. The three men sat smoking in silence, their eyes on the slowly approaching herd. Hopalong made a slow gesture and in answer to it the riders with the cattle opened up the herd. The animals plodded past, spread out so that the brands on most of them could be seen. The road brands were uniformly just back of the left shoulder; the range brands, according to the marks. There wasn’t a vent brand on the lot, which meant that they had never been sold or traded. The herd went by, the curling dust rolling over it, and slowly closed up again. The cutter glanced at the inconsequential drag and nodded approvingly.
“Nice bunch,” he grunted, once more looking at his companions. They nodded, but said nothing.
“Might be a right good idear not to make too much time along here,” continued the cutter. “There’s eleven herds ahead of you in the next thirty miles.”
“Great mavericks!” grunted Red.
Hopalong’s expression also bespoke surprise, and he looked inquiringly at the cutter.
The trail cutter smiled and explained the situation.
“They found th’ Squaw roarin’ over its banks,” he said. “It’s a
mean river. After it went down they had to wait for th’ bottom to pack and settle. There’s a sight of quicksand in it. Th’ first herd that reached it simply had to wait, an’ th’ others caught up with it. They lost so much time waitin’ that they crossed over as soon as they could, all of ’em, an’ moved right along, without worryin’ very much about spacin’. It was poor feedin’ country, an’ they wanted to get shut of it. They took a chance, for if any of th’ leadin’ herds had stampeded, there would have been a mess from there back that woulda taken so much untanglin’ that it wouldn’t–a been good news for nobody.”
Hopalong nodded, but he was not thinking of what might have happened on that trail. He was thinking that what was left of the grazing along the main trail, after eleven closely spaced herds had passed over it, also would not be good news for the Circle 4.
“How far ahead is th’ last bunch?” he asked.
“Plenty. Near ten miles.”
“Th’ feed won’t be none too good for us,” growled Hopalong.
“You can get by with it,” said the cutter. “Th’ grass was extry good this year. Th’ first three, four herds are keepin’ right on th’ trail, close–bunched, an’ steppin’ right along, figgerin’ to open up longer gaps an’ get outa th’ way. They’re all range stockers, an’ losin’ a little weight won’t make no difference to ’em.”
“Hope they keep on steppin’,” growled Red.
“Many beef herds?” asked the trail boss, thinking of the possibility of a glutted market and falling prices, although this contingency did not affect him or his herd.
“Two. Th’ others are headed for the open ranges, north an’ west. One of ’em is bound for Dakota, another for Montana, an’ one of ’em is goin’ clean through to Canada.” His eyes glistened, for while he was a cutter now, he had been over the trail with the herds; and once that virus gets into the system, the patient is usually ruined for life—that is, any other kind of life. “That’s a drive I’d like to be on; but they had a full crew.” For a moment he was silent, looking after the placidly moving herd, and then he glanced back along the trail it had followed. “Anythin’ behind you?”
“Not that we know about,” answered Hopalong. “We ain’t had no visitors from th’ rear, an’ we ain’t seen no dust sign behind us.”
The trail cutter nodded and regarded the two riders rather closely.
“See anythin’ of th’ sheriff?” he asked.
“Shore,” grunted Hopalong, grinning. “His tail was up, an’ he was pawin’ th’ ground; when he left us he had quit pawin’, but his tail was still up. If you should run into him, you better tell him that I got th’ fake trail cutter he was gunnin’ for. Got him over in Waggoner’s trail station.”
“You did?” quickly asked the cutter. “By Gawd, mister, I’m right glad of that. Did he try to run a cut on you?”
Hopalong explained recent history as briefly as possible, and the three men rode slowly after the herd, talking things over. They passed the feeding branch trail, now deep with dust and littered with broken bushes. Far ahead there was a faint, yellowish tint in the lower sky, where the dust, freshly churned by thousands of hoofs, was still soaring. The trail boss shook his head.
“When we bed down, from now on, it’ll shore be well off th’ trail,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Red, nodding. “There’s shore a mess of cattle up th’ line, an’ if anythin’ busts loose we want to be well out of th’ way.”
Hopalong glanced at the trail cutter, a grim smile on his face.
“When you figgerin’ to throw us for a cut?” he asked.
“Not yet,” answered the guardian of the surrounding range. “I looked ’em over while they walked.” He glanced from Hopalong to Red and back again, a grin wreathing his thin lips. “I’ll mebby ask for a cut before you get outa my territory, but not before. I don’t aim to be no more bother than I have to be. I been up th’ trail myself. A cut, down here, with all th’ rest of th’ range to cross, wouldn’t mean anythin’.” The grin grew. “I’d only have to cut you ag’in, an’ that’s plumb foolish.”
“Friend,” said Hopalong, slowly, “yo’re shore one of them fellers we hear about but don’t often meet up with. Any time you want to cut us for range cattle you say so. Once, or more’n once. We’ll pitch in an’ help you trim out th’ range strays so fast it’ll open yore eyes. An’ any time yo’re near our wagon, drop in an’ sample th’ cook’s cookin’. You have any trouble cuttin’ them herds up ahead?”
“Not yet,” chuckled the trail cutter. “I don’t figger to cut none of ’em till they’re about ready to clear out of my country. That means I got nothin’ to do today; an’ that means I’m droppin’ my war bag at yore wagon tonight.” He shoved his hat back on his head and sighed. “I’ll be plenty busy tomorrow, with three or four herds to cut. Those first few range stockers are steppin’ right along.”
The herd was watered shortly after noon, and it moved slowly forward again until about four o’clock by the sun, when the riders turned it aside and drove it more than a mile off the beaten track. The distance was none too far, considering how the trail was cluttered up ahead of them. Here it was loosely herded and allowed to spread out and feed unmolested on good range grass, which assured full bellies, which in turn promised a placid night. The weather was clear, with no threat of a storm.
Hopalong rode back to the busy wagon and found the trail cutter lending a helping hand to the sullen cook. He glanced at the culinary artist, but said nothing: the cook was paying for his recent mistakes. Hopalong tossed the reins over the horse’s head and for a moment sat quietly in the saddle, looking steadily northward. As he finally swung to the ground the trail cutter, glancing from the clear, dustless air under the northern sky to the trail boss, nodded slowly and spoke.
“Th’ feed wasn’t so good along th’ branch trail from th’ Squaw,” he said thoughtfully. “Them fellers pushed their cattle purty rapid, to get over it an’ onto th’ main trail. Th’ last two herds I passed, comin’ down here today, was spread out an’ feedin’, which was killin’ three birds with one stone. It fed th’ cattle up, let ’em rest, an’ gave time for th’ gaps to open up between th’ herds. I figger yo’re far enough off th’ trail not to worry none about them fellers. Yo’re located about right.”
Hopalong nodded gravely, and a smile crept over his face. It was a little strained, but it was still a smile.
“Shore, I know that,” he replied, “but I figger to keep movin’ ahead a little every day. I got a delivery date to think about. I don’t want to step on them fellers’ heels, an’ I don’t want to speed up th’ pace an’ go around ’em. That ain’t hardly polite. I’ve got somethin’ in my mind that’s been botherin’ me all day. Oh, well, what th’ hell! Just whereabouts in th’ line–up are them two beef herds that you spoke about?”
The trail cutter was regarding him curiously.
“They’re th’ last two,” he answered with a smile. He couldn’t understand why his companion should be worrying about anything.
“Well,” growled Hopalong, “there are times when I’d ruther see dust in th’ sky than not see it. This here is one of them times. I hope to see plenty of it in th’ mornin’.”
“Somethin’s got you worried,” said the trail cutter curiously.
“Reckon that’s because I’m allus puttin’ myself in th’ other feller’s place,” replied the trail boss.
The cutter grinned, said something to the cook, and added a few sticks to the fire.
The shadows lengthened with increasing swiftness, and the heat grew suddenly less. The herd was still grazing, without unified forward movement, its guardian riders purposely keeping well away from it. Men rode in to the wagon, laughing and joking, eagerly waiting for the cook’s call. The cavvy fed industriously and paid no particular attention to the departure of the night horses. The wrangler knew what horses would be wanted and had cut them out to save time. Hopalong and the cutter stretched the flimsy rope corral from the fr
ont wheel of the wagon and closed the gap after the night horses were inside it. The smell of cooking food followed the air currents to tickle appreciative nostrils, and the eyes of the busy cook turned more often toward the coffee pot nesting on the incandescent coals. Cook held strong prejudices against letting it boil over.
The shadows died out, absorbed by the greater shadow of a ridge which had traveled eastward like a bullet. The cook took three quick steps, grabbed the coffee pot as its contents began to swell, and placed it on the ground near the outer fringe of the fire. He lazily moved a hand and yelled loudly, whereupon action became instant and general. A brief burst of action, of men moving past the tailboard of the wagon, of men seating themselves expertly on the earth with both hands full, was followed by a silence broken only by the scraping of steel knives on tin plates, or the grateful exhalation of some feeding human.
The twilight deepened, and then came darkness under a suddenly star–stabbed sky. The faint glow of the fire lighted the faces surrounding it and picked out the more prominent features, turning some of them into gargoyles. The trail boss sat as silent and rigid as a statue, a grave, troubled expression on his face. He was frozen into the immobility of deep thought; and from surface indications his thoughts were not pleasant. Responsibility wears heavy spurs.
“…he climbed right straight up in th’ air an’ went over backwards,” Johnny was saying.
Hopalong arose and motioned to the speaker and to Red.
“Take a little ride with me,” he ordered and strode toward his saddled and picketed night horse, closely followed by his obedient but curious friends. In silence they mounted and swung into the night, straight toward the place where the cavvy should be found. After a short interval of riding a voice hailed them, and they replied to it and soon joined Pete Wilson. The horses were still grazing. On Pete’s face was a look of curiosity, masked by the darkness.
“What’s th’ matter?” he asked, a little sharply.
Trail Dust Page 8
