“Only four now,” answered Red: “an’ two of them are headin’ this way. I saw their gunfire. How’re you, Pete?”
“Wetter’n th’ Gulf, an’ hungry as hell. Who’s that with you?”
“Me,” answered the Kid. “How come we busted apart like we did? I reckoned we was all bunched together.”
“Bunch of cattle split me an’ Lanky off from you,” answered Pete.
“Reckon that’s what happened to all of us,” said Red, his voice tense and worried. Two of his friends might be lying dead or wounded somewhere out on the sodden plain. Again he drew his gun and fired into the air and smiled a little at three answering flashes from widely different points. “There’s three of ’em: only one still missin’.”
“No!” shouted Johnny as his alert eyes caught a faint wink of light far to the east behind his companions’ backs. “There’s another!” He drew his own gun and fired above his head. “How’n hell did he ever get away over there?”
“Wandered off to pick him some posies!” snapped Red, his grouch returning with this promise that all his friends were safe.
“Anybody got some dry tobacco an’ papers?” asked Pete hopefully.
Gentle, unhurried movements replied to his question, but they replied to it in vain: there was neither dry tobacco nor papers in the crowd.
“No grub, no coffee, no smokes,” grumbled Pete. “Damn if I’ll ever go up th’ trail ag’in. A man’s a fool to.”
“That shore goes for me!” snapped Johnny.
Red laughed knowingly, his eyes on a faint movement between him and where the trail should be. He raised his voice.
“Over here,” he directed. “We’re holdin’ a meetin’. Pete an’ th’ Kid have just sworn off trail–drivin’.”
“Hello, Red,” said the indistinct rider, coming steadily nearer. “That so? Sworn off ag’in, huh?” He laughed gently. “Hey! Who’s got th’ makin’s of a smoke? Mine’s soggy.”
“If you’d take care of yore makin’s you wouldn’t be beggin’ a smoke,” retorted Johnny with more spirit than good sense.
“All right, Kid; you win: now I’ll beg some of yourn.”
Red laughed again.
“He’s preachin’, Skinny; not practisin’: his tobacco is mostly water. Well, there’s five of us showed up, an’ two more on their way.”
“Five?” asked Skinny, counting faces. “Where’s th’ other?”
“Off to get them hog–tied hosses,” answered Johnny. “It’s Hoppy. Mebby he wasn’t as crazy as some fools figgered, throwin’ an’ tiein’ them hosses.”
“Reckon not,” grunted Pete. “Here comes somebody else. Hey! There’s eight of us, an’ not seven: you forgettin’ that trail cutter?”
“Damn if you ain’t right,” growled Red. “He’s shore one of us by this time. Wonder where he is.” He again pulled out his gun and fired it into the air. Three flashes replied to him, one of them close up, another several times as far away, and the third could barely be seen far to the south.
“That makes eight!” exulted Johnny.
“Who’s got a match that’ll light?” asked a voice out of the darkness.
“Hello, Lanky!” cried the Kid. “You got dry makin’s?”
“Yeah; but I can’t light it. Who–all’s there? … Yeah? That’s good. Reckon that must be Billy, then, back there behind me. Where’s that match?”
Again there were little, gentle movements, and again they were futile. There was not a dry match in the crowd. Lanky regarded this as an outrage and said so with his well–known frankness:
“Fine bunch of growed–up men! Not a dry match among you! You–all make me sick!”
“All right: get sick, an’ stay sick!” snapped Red. “Why’n hell ain’t you usin’ yore own matches, then?”
“Mine are all wet! That’s why!” flared Lanky and flushed at the instant burst of laughter. “Aw, that’s all right; but I did keep my makin’s dry!”
“Lot of good that did you!”
“Hi!” called a voice.
“That you, Billy?”
“Yeah. Anybody got some dry smokin’?”
“Shore: I have,” answered Lanky; “but we ain’t got no dry matches.”
“H–a–a–w! That’s good. I got dry matches. Everybody here?”
“Yeah; all of us,” answered Pete. “Reckon th’ trail cutter’s on his way, too. Hey, Lanky: how long’s it take you to roll a cigarette?”
“Long as I want!” retorted Lanky. “Seein’ that I own th’ makin’s!”
“I only got one match,” said Billy. “I been savin’ it.”
“What else would you do with it?” snapped Red.
There came a flash from the south, much nearer this time, and Pete’s gun answered it. He chuckled deep in his throat.
“Hope that is th’ trail cutter: he’s one damn white feller,” he said and then looked around. “Gimme that match, Billy.”
“Wait a minute!” snapped Red. “I want some of that match!”
“You can light yourn from mine, can’t you?” demanded Pete.
“Shore he can!” said Skinny. “Come on, Billy: light her up.”
“Nobody uses this match till I get my cigarette rolled!” retorted Billy. “Where’s them papers an’ that tobacco?”
In due course of time every man held a cigarette, waiting for Billy to strike a match. This he did thoughtlessly, along the tightly stretched cloth of his trousers; and his trousers still being very wet, the head of the match dissolved in its dragging progress, and he stared through the growing light at the naked head of the stick; and then ducked barely in time. The ensuing language was as sulphurous as the match had been, but was suddenly cut short by Lanky’s command.
“Hell with that!” he barked. “We got work to do. We got to round–up these damn cattle an’ get th’ cavvies cut out an’ herded by themselves. Th’ hosses first, so them other outfits can shift their saddles when they has to. Come on: get a move on!”
“An’ Billy figgers he’s a human bein’,” snorted Pete in great disgust, wheeling his tired horse to go to work. He looked southward and grinned. “Yep: he’s safe. There’s th’ trail cutter.”
Hands rose in the air in swift gestures of greeting to the oncoming rider, and then the little group whirled about, spread out, and started in on the day’s work; a day’s work which was to be hard and long: the rounding up of six thousand head of cattle and more than eleven score riding horses; the rounding up and the cutting out necessary to sort and hold the cattle into three trail herds, and the horses into three cavvies. Cold, wet, hungry, they went to work with jibes and laughter.
Up the trail, at the Circle 4 wagon, a comparatively warm and dry cook crawled out from under the wagon cover as dawn broke, looked around the soggy and puddled plain, regarded the seven thrown riding horses just south of the tailboard, and shook his head. He reached up behind him, took down the lantern, blew it out, and placed it inside the wagon box. Going back under the cover, he reappeared with an armful of dry firewood and climbed down to the ground with it. After a few moments of pocketknife labor he had a little pile of shavings, and shortly after that he was judiciously placing his precious firewood on the curling, licking flames.
“Shore was one hell of a mess,” he muttered as he took the coffee pot, still full to the brim, and placed it near the briskly burning fire. Then he returned to the wagon, hauled out a pot of beans and a pan of biscuits, and rolled himself a smoke. His tobacco was dry and so were his matches. As he lit the cigarette he looked more closely down the trail and nodded.
The horseman turned off toward the wagon, riding at a steady lope, caring nothing about the fatigue of the horse.
Cook watched the rider with interest and again nodded.
“Th’ boss,” he said and turned to place the coffee pot on the fire. “He’ll shore be ready for some of that,” he said. “An’ so’ll I. Wonder how th’ other boys are. Gawd, but it was terrible!”
The horseman pulled up at the fire and
spoke briefly. The cook threw his saddle out of the wagon, took the coffee pot from the fire, and helped to untie the prostrate horses. In a few minutes he was riding beside his boss, the little herd of riding stock trotting before them.
“Anybody get hurted?” asked the cook, his eyes on his companion.
“Don’t know. They hadn’t all been heard from before I left.”
“Gawd, what a night!”
“Musta been, all snug under that canvas cover,” retorted the trail boss. “Didn’t even get yore tobacco wet, did you?”
The cook squirmed, sat around in the saddle, and looked straight ahead. He felt that he had nothing further to say about the storm.
“Didn’t get yore tobacco wet, did you?” persisted the trail boss.
“No, reckon not,” muttered the cook.
“All right, then: gimme th’ makin’s an’ a dry match. I’ll have a smoke for breakfast.”
They were riding diagonally up the slope of a steep rise, the trail boss gratefully drawing smoke into his lungs; and as they rode even with the top of the rise and looked over it, he muttered something under his breath as he stared at a distant bunch of saddled horses and a close group of men. The men all had their hats off. He turned a worried face to the staring cook.
“Keep these hosses goin’ as they are. I’m headin’ over there to see if I can give a hand. I don’t believe it can be one of our—our boys, but——”
The cook watched him go, driving the tired horse at its best speed, and sorrowfully shook his head; but he had his orders, and he kept the little horse herd on its way.
As Hopalong drew near the group one of the men slowly turned and looked at him. It was Gibson, trail boss of the 3 TL, and his face was set and grim. To one side of Gibson lay a saddled horse, one leg twisted grotesquely sideways. The bullet hole in the white spot on the forehead had stained it red. The horse was out of its misery. The story was plain to read, and in his mind’s eye Hopalong could see the rider pitching headlong from the saddle and under the smashing hoofs of scores of maddened cattle while the livid lightning flashed and the rain poured down. He took off his hat and clamped an arm over it, and he felt his throat constrict a little. His own men had not been all accounted for.
“Who is it, Gibson?” he asked, anxiously, his face hard and set.
“Luke: Luke Potter. It ain’t a nice sight, Cassidy.”
“No. Never is,” replied Hopalong, looking through the gap which Gibson had made in the close–packed circle of hatless men. He saw a trampled mass of mud–and blood–covered clothing, a thing which had been a face. It was not a nice sight. He drew a deep breath and relaxed.
“My wagon must be all of a dozen miles up th’ trail,” said Gibson slowly, thoughtfully. “Yourn oughta be quite a lot closer. Can we use yore shovel, Cassidy?”
“Shore. I’ll go get it,” said Hopalong quickly.
“No. You’ve got plenty on yore hands. I’ll send one of th’ boys,” said Gibson, turning toward the little circle. “George! Go up th’ trail to th’ Circle 4 wagon. They got a shovel. Make time.”
“You know where it is?” asked Hopalong.
“Reckon so,” answered George. “I saw its lantern as I went past last night.” He took two quick steps, landed in his saddle, and urged his tired horse up the slope. In a moment he was out of sight.
“All yore boys show up yet?” asked Gibson.
“Don’t know. I left before they all had time to,” answered Hopalong. “You want I should stay here an’ give you a hand?”
Gibson shook his head slowly.
“No. We’ll take care of Luke,” he said. “He was a damn good man: gentle with hosses, square with his friends, an’ a first–class hand with cattle. Funny thing: he didn’t want to go on this drive.”
“Yes,” said Hopalong. He glanced again at the little circle. “Leave th’ shovel here, standin’ up so th’ cook can find it,” he said. “He’ll be comin’ back with th’ work hosses to hitch onto th’ wagon an’ haul it down where we’ll be workin’. You an’ yore boys feed at our wagon till you have plenty of time to go after yore own. We’ll round up an’ cut out enough hosses for you–all to use, an’ we’ll all be workin’ together on th’ same job. Well, I can’t do nothin’ for Luke: see you later, Gibson.”
“Shore,” replied the 3 TL trail boss, tears forming in his eyes. “Gawd! I don’t know how I’m goin’ to tell my daughter.”
“Tough,” said Hopalong, slowly. “Son–in–law?”
“Yes. An’ a damn good one!”
Hopalong pressed the bony shoulder in a grip which hurt, turned without another word, walked to his horse, and rode away. One more good man to mark that cattle trail. He shook his head, blew out his breath, and sent the horse into a gallop: he had no son–in–law, but every man in his outfit was a mighty good friend of his—and the sooner he knew all about them, the better he would feel. The roan buckled down to it and sent the wind whistling past its rider’s head. Cook and the fresh horses came swiftly nearer, and as the trail boss flashed past he waved his hand toward the south and kept on going.
“My Gawd, what a night!” said the cook.
XXIII
The plain looked like round–up time, and in a way it was. The three wagons, perhaps a mile apart, could be located by their cheery fires. The mass of cattle and horses had been herded together and cut out according to their respective road brands. Further than that, each herd and cavvy had been counted, and the tallies were surprisingly good in consideration of what had happened. The 3 TL had lost less than two dozen head, the T Dot Circle less than that; while the Circle 4 was more fortunate than either of the others, owing, perhaps, to the quick checking of its first stampede. Under the stars three herds rested on their bed grounds, ready for the trail again.
Hopalong put down his tin plate and felt for tobacco and papers. He had been silent and preoccupied ever since he had ridden in for a late supper; and this despite the outcome of the storm and stampede of two nights before. Big Muddy Creek and its bottomless morass held his thoughts: that quagmire would most certainly hold them up for several days. Even at its best it was treacherous. He looked around the little, seated circle and smiled at the contentment on each face.
Lanky grinned at him.
“Well, we’ll soon be on our way ag’in,” he said.
“Yeah,” grunted Hopalong with little enthusiasm. “How many herds do you reckon are behind us?”
Lanky shook his head.
“No tellin’,” he said; “but they all got that storm, too. They ain’t movin’ along any faster than we are. We’re just as far ahead of ’em now as we was two days ago.”
“Yeah,” said the trail boss slowly; “but Big Muddy Creek will hold us up so long that they’ll all catch up with us, an’ then there’ll be another jam of cattle. Seems like our hard luck is all comin’ to us at this end of th’ drive.”
“Big Muddy shore is mean,” said Red, recrossing his legs. He shook his head.
“Wonder who was drivin’ them range stockers, up ahead?” said Skinny. “They was lucky, th’ hull nine of ’em. They had time to get acrost Big Muddy before th’ storm. It musta been purty well dried out then.”
Sounds of walking horses came nearer, and in a few moments two riders pushed up into the light of the little fire and smiled down upon the seated outfit. The two callers were Gibson and Halliday.
“Light down an’ set,” invited Hopalong, getting to his feet.
“Reckon we ain’t stoppin’ long enough for that,” replied Halliday. “We just rid over to tell you to throw back onto th’ trail first. You boys been damn white, an’ you got a delivery date. Wish we had. Me an’ Gibson’ll hold back tomorrow, an’ give you all th’ start you want. Besides, I got a boy in th’ wagon with a busted laig, an’ it won’t do him no harm to get a couple more days’ rest. We’ll foller Gibson day after tomorrow. I’m sendin’ a rider back down th’ trail to see how close th’ next herd is. Well, take it all in all, you fell
ows an’ us was right lucky: I been goin’ up th’ trail for several years, an’ I never saw a worse night.”
“That’s right kind of you boys, lettin’ us get away first,” said Hopalong. “We’ll shore try to get outa yore way; but I’m afraid Big Muddy’ll bunch us all up ag’in, an’ mebby pile up some of them follerin’ herds to make things all th’ meaner. Big Muddy just won’t have no bottom at all after that rain.”
“I ain’t so shore about that,” said Halliday, with a grin. “John Slaughter sent up three herds late last year. He went along with th’ first one hisself. John lives down in my part of th’ country, an’ I see him once in a while. He told me that when they reached Big Muddy it was so damn soft an’ mean that they reckoned it would mebby hold them up till after th’ first frost. John, he’s a damn smart cattleman, from every angle: an’ he had three whole outfits with him, thirty–three men, leavin’ out th’ cooks. He scouted up Big Muddy till he found heavy brush. It was growin’ near a narrow place in th’ creek. What did he do but put them three outfits cuttin’ brush an’ layin’ it acrost th’ creek. When they had brush enough to show above th’ water, they heaped on th’ dirt. When that sunk down, they cut an’ piled on more brush, an’ piled on more dirt. John said it took ’em four whole days to bridge that mire, but bridge it they did. ’Tain’t wide, but it’s wide enough to git wagons over. Then they planted posts an’ made a brush fence, runnin’ out from th’ south end of that bridge like a V, an’ they pushed their cattle acrost in small bunches, an’ never had no trouble at all after th’ first bunch got over. Some of that bridge still oughta be there. Me an’ Gibson’ll throw our shovels into yore wagon, if you reckon you’ll need ’em. If you take ’em, leave ’em stickin’ up at this end of th’ bridge for us to find. I hate to part with any of my boys, after what happened two nights back; but it ain’t fair to pile all that bridge fixin’ onto you: if you want a couple of my boys, you say so.”
Hopalong’s expression had grown less serious as Halliday talked, and now he was smiling and shaking his head. Perhaps this end of the trail would be kinder from now on.
Trail Dust Page 18
