by Janet Dailey
Benteen turned to glance at the bed as he tucked his shirt inside the close-fitting denim pants. “Get out of the bed and get dressed.” It was more prompting than an order.
“Do we have to leave this morning?” Lorna asked. “Can’t we wait one more day?”
He came back to the bed and leaned down to place a hand on either side of her. “If I thought we could wait one more day, I’d be in bed with you now.” His look seemed able to see her body beneath the covers, and Lorna felt that stirring of passion within her. “But we can’t hold the herd on that ground any longer. They’re out of graze, and they have to be moved.”
“But just one day …” she began, some female instinct telling her that he could be tempted the way Adam had been in the Bible.
“No.” It was a decisive answer, followed by decisive action as Benteen slipped his hands under her shoulders and lifted her out of bed. “The plans are set and the boys have their orders to have the cattle ready to move out no later than midmorning.” Once she was standing naked in front of him, his hands wandered absently over her ribs and waist. “I’ll be leaving as soon as I’ve shaved and cleaned up. If you’re coming with me, you’d better get a move on.”
One look at the interest flickering in his otherwise determined features, and Lorna wasn’t at all intimidated by his idle threat that he would consider leaving her behind. Before it could take hold, he was letting her go, to turn abruptly away.
“Get your clothes on,” Benteen ordered gruffly.
And Lorna had her first hint of how easily aroused a man could be by a woman’s form. The thought barely had time to register before it was crowded out by more immediate considerations that included getting packed and dressed for the journey.
After a quick breakfast in the hotel’s dining room, they went by the Pearce home so Lorna could see her parents one last time before they left. A restless part of Benteen made him impatient at the delay, but for Lorna’s sake he controlled it, aware that he couldn’t expect her to leave home without a farewell parting from her family. But when it threatened to stretch into a lengthy and painful good-bye, he stepped in.
“Lorna, we have to go.” His hand gripped her elbow, his voice firm.
“Can’t we stay a little longer?” She turned to him, the tears now starting to fall steadily.
“No.” Benteen didn’t try to temper his refusal, although the tears made it difficult.
When she saw that her appeal wasn’t swaying him, she turned back to hug her mother tightly. Mrs. Pearce was crying as well, more emotional than Benteen had ever seen her. There was even a sheen of dampness in her father’s eyes as Arthur Pearce stepped forward to clasp Benteen’s hand in both of his.
“You take good care of my little girl.” There was a stiffness to the man’s smile and the rigid set of his chin.
“I will, sir.” Benteen pretended not to notice the huskiness in the man’s voice.
Then Lorna was pulling out of her mother’s arms and looking tearfully at her father. “Oh, Daddy,” she sobbed, and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. For a minute Arthur Pearce hid his face in her dark hair and hugged her close.
“You be good, now, ya hear?” It was a gruff admonition to mask his pain.
“I’ll miss you so much, Daddy,” Lorna declared in a sobbing voice.
Benteen knew there wasn’t any easy way to end this. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pearce,” he intruded firmly on the emotional scene. There was a reluctant nod of understanding as Arthur Pearce tried to set his daughter away from him. Taking her by the shoulders, Benteen pulled her the rest of the way back. Her hands remained extended, reaching involuntarily toward her parents. “It’s time, Lorna.”
“I …” But the words were choked off as she turned quickly away from the sight of her mother crying and the pained look on her father’s face. She practically ran toward the wagon, covering her mouth to hold back the sobs trembling through her whole body.
Grimly Benteen helped her climb up to the wagon seat and followed her up. It hurt him to look at her anguished, tear-filled face, so he kept his eyes averted. She was barely seated and she was already turning to gaze longingly at her parents. The reins to the horse team were wrapped around the brake handle. Benteen unwound them.
“Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!”
“Don’t forget to write!”
“We’ll miss you!”
“Good-bye!”
Benteen didn’t attempt to separate the voices calling after each other as he slapped the horses with the reins and chirruped to the team. The jangle of trace chains, the pounding shuffle of digging hooves, and the rattle of the covered wagon combined to drown out the voices. Beside him, Lorna waved frantically, straining and twisting in the seat to keep her parents in sight as they drove down the street. The tears kept falling, and Benteen kept a tight-lipped silence, understanding yet feeling the anger of frustration, because there was nothing he could say or do. Her desolation was beyond comforting, so he didn’t try.
They were nearly out of town before her shoulders quit shaking with sobs, but the tears didn’t stop. Benteen slid a short glance at her pale, strained face, partially turned from him, and looked again to the front. With one hand he untied the kerchief knotted loosely around his throat and silently offered it to her.
She took it and wiped at her tear-drenched cheeks, while holding on to the sides of the wagon seat to keep from being bounced out by the rough road. When she had dried her face, she clutched the kerchief in her lap.
“I can’t help it.” Lorna defended her tears.
“I know.” His voice was tight. She dabbed again at her eyes, bowing her head and sniffling. Purposely or not, she was making him feel like a bastard for taking her away from her parents. It rankled him, because she was his wife. She belonged with him, not them. Benteen stifled it as best he could, but some of his agitation crept through. “Those tears aren’t going to make you feel any better.” He was conscious of her stiffening and cursed himself for not offering her some comfort.
When he tried to put his arm around her, Lorna pushed it away. “You don’t understand,” she accused, the tears building again in her eyes. “I’ll probably never see them again.”
In all likelihood, she was right, so Benteen didn’t attempt to argue the point. But her eyes were on him, waiting for him to deny it and allay her fears. Her chin started quivering at his silence.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.” He was honest as he could be with her, a grimness to his profiled features.
He expected her to burst into tears, but the outpouring of grief didn’t come. Tears continued to slide silently down her cheeks as Lorna stared at the road ahead. That was harder for him to endure than the wild weeping he had anticipated.
All was in readiness to take the trail when they reached the camp at nine that morning, three hours of sunlight gone. The horses were hitched to the chuck wagon; Ely Stanton’s wagon was ready to pull out; the wrangler had the horse remuda bunched; and all the cowboys were in the saddle, waiting for the word to move out.
Pulling in the team, Benteen set the brake and wrapped the reins around it. He cast a glance at Lorna, noting the tears frozen on her face. A heavy sigh broke from him as he swung down from the wagon seat to the ground. He walked to the rear of the wagon and untied his saddle horse.
Jessie Trumbo rode up as Benteen stepped into the saddle. “All set whenever you give the word,” he said, and received a short nod.
Benteen rode past without looking at Lorna and cantered his horse to the Stanton wagon. He touched his hat in a silent greeting to the plain woman sitting alone in the wagon seat, a bonnet covering her hair. She met his look squarely.
“I’d be obliged, Mrs. Stanton, if you would drive my wagon this morning,” he requested stiffly. “My wife would be grateful for your company. The wrangler’s helper will drive yours.”
“Of course, Mr. Calder,” Mary Stanton agreed, and gath
ered her long calico skirts to climb down from the seat.
Pivoting his horse, Benteen trotted it over to the chuck wagon, where Jessie was talking to the cook, Rusty. “Tell Joe Dollarhide he’ll be driving the Stanton wagon this morning.”
Both men had noticed the bride’s white, teary face, but both men knew better than to mention it to Benteen. With a nod, Jessie wheeled his horse away from the chuck wagon and galloped out to the remuda to fetch the young rider.
When Mary Stanton crawled onto the wagon seat beside Lorna, she felt a surge of pity for the young bride. “Your husband thought we could keep each other company this morning,” she explained with a quiet smile.
Lorna nodded stiffly but didn’t speak. Her fingers had wadded the kerchief into a tight ball on her lap. Across the way, Mary saw the cranky old cook preparing to start his team out, so she unwrapped the reins and adjusted them in her hands. The chuck wagon would lead the way to the day’s nooning, a little off the route the herd would take.
“We’ll be following the chuck wagon,” Mary said. Her glance rested on the sunbonnet hanging loosely down Lorna’s back. “You’d better tie that bonnet on your head,” she advised. “Else the sun’ll ruin your pretty skin.” In time, it would anyway, but she kept that knowledge to herself.
In her present state of anguish, Lorna didn’t particularly care, but she numbly pulled the bonnet onto her head and knotted the ties snugly under her chin. A young boy rode by and dismounted to climb aboard the second covered wagon after tying his horse behind. When the chuck wagon rattled into motion, Mary started their team of horses. Lorna grabbed hold of the wagon seat again as it lurched forward. She looked for Benteen, catching a glimpse of him just as he signaled to move the herd out.
“It’s hard leavin’ home that first time,” Mary remarked after they’d traveled a short distance. “Not knowing when you might see your family again.”
“Yes,” Lorna admitted, finally looking directly at the woman only a few years older than she was. She sensed that Mary Stanton actually understood what she was feeling. “Have … you seen your parents since you left home?”
“No,” Mary admitted. “My ma died last year. I’m hoping we can go to her grave when we get to Ioway.”
Her answer gave Lorna no reassurance that her fears were groundless. Yet the words were more bearable coming from Mary than from Benteen.
“A woman’s lot in this world is a lonely one,” Mary said. “You’ll find that out—and find a way to make the best of it.”
“I don’t feel so sure about that,” Lorna murmured.
“Right now, you’re thinking about what’s behind you, but when you get to your new home and there’s babies to raise, you’ll be looking ahead. Grief passes. That’s the way it is.”
“I suppose.” But it was very fresh for her now, too fresh to accept so philosophically.
“A woman doesn’t have much choice in this world. When she’s being raised, her parents tell her what to do. And after she’s married, it’s her husband.”
“It isn’t fair,” Lorna replied, not truly realizing what she was saying.
“Life isn’t fair, but it can be good.” Mary smiled faintly. The girl had a little more pluck than she thought.
It didn’t seem possible to Lorna, not when she might never see her parents again. Married life wasn’t turning out to be what she thought it would be. From what Mary said, it wasn’t going to get any better. It was so hard to think with the noise of bawling cattle and the clatter of the wagon hammering at her eardrums as they bounced and jolted over the rough prairie ground.
All her thoughts were turned inward. Lorna didn’t notice that the Texas prairie was garbed in its best dress to see her off. Spring had brought green grass to the land again, and the few trees were swelling and bursting with green buds. Wildflowers gave color to the rolling hillsides. Purpling blue patches of bluebonnets, yellow clusters of wild mustard, and the scarlet-orange stands of Indian paintbrush dotted the land.
It was a season that reached out to the restless. Benteen felt its call. He’d answered it enough times in the past. From the vantage point of a high knoll he watched the Longhorns string out. The brindle steer had already shouldered its way to the front, assuming leadership of the herd. It was characteristic for individual animals to keep the same position in a trail herd every day. Some would always be in the middle, some closer to the front, and others lagging behind. No matter where they started at the beginning of a day’s drive, by the time it ended, they would have established their habitual position.
Spanish Bill and Jessie Trumbo were the point men, riding in the lead on either side of the herd to guide it in the right direction. The swing, flank, and drag riders would rotate their positions each day, but not the point men. It was a critical position, requiring experience and skill. Benteen had given the responsibility to the two men he trusted most.
The herd wasn’t driven so much as it was drifted in the right direction—always at a leisurely walk. The long-striding cattle could eat up ground without losing weight as long as they were kept out of a trot. In most cases, the Longhorns gained weight on the trail north to the railheads if there was plenty of water and graze along the way.
Ahead, the wagons were disappearing into a crease in the prairie. Benteen watched the canvas-topped wagon that carried Lorna, until it dipped out of sight. He hoped he’d done the right thing—having Mary Stanton ride with her. He hadn’t wanted her to be alone, yet he had the responsibility of the herd.
The trail boss of any drive had one motto that he lived by: Look out for the cows’ feet and the horses’ backs, and let the cowboys and cooks look after themselves. That partially applied to his new bride as well. These cattle represented their tomorrow. She had to understand that. He put the spurs to his horse and galloped to the point.
Because of the late start, Benteen let the herd drift north an hour longer than usual, until the sun was straight up, before letting them stop to graze on a midday break. The spot had been preselected, so the chuck wagon was waiting with a light meal for the drovers. The cowboys ate in shifts, a few always staying with the herd.
Benteen carried his plate over to where Lorna was seated by the wagon. Her cheeks were dry, but she still looked numbed to her surroundings.
“How about something to eat?” He crouched down beside her, pushing his hat to the back of his head.
“I’m not hungry.” She didn’t look at him.
“Suit yourself.” Sitting on his heels, he started eating. He glanced around, again seeing the wildflowers and the bursting of spring green. “It’s a pretty day.”
“Here.” She dug his red bandanna out of her pocket and handed it to him.
“Are you and Mary Stanton getting along all right?” For the time being, Benteen tucked the bandanna in his shirt pocket.
“Yes.”
“I can arrange for her to ride with you this afternoon if you want,” Benteen offered.
“I can manage the team,” Lorna retorted.
He set the plate down, unable to eat with all this cold tension in the air. “Lorna, I’m sorry about your parents. I know you feel bad, but there isn’t much I can do.”
“There isn’t much you want to do.” She stood up and walked over to the Stanton wagon.
Picking up his plate, Benteen started eating again, but he didn’t taste a thing except anger. It was a hell of a way to start the first day of married life, but he’d be damned if he’d apologize again.
When the Longhorns had grazed long enough, they began to lie down. That was the signal to start them back on the trail. It was easier driving a herd in the afternoon, because they were thirsty and willing to walk to water.
This part of the trail, Benteen knew well. Ordinarily he wouldn’t ride ahead at this point to check out the night’s bedding ground, except he remembered Stoney at the livery stable mentioning some of the water holes had been fenced by farmers. Sure enough, he found new barbed wire fencing off the water.
&
nbsp; Spanish had ridden with him. “A man selling this wire built a fence with it in San Antonio. He stampeded some Longhorns into it to show how strong it was. They knocked a post out of the ground, but the wire held.”
“Cut it,” Benteen ordered.
“The farmer isn’t going to like it.” Spanish turned a curious pair of black eyes on the man.
“Neither will a herd of thirsty Longhorns,” he replied. “Cut it.”
By the time the herd had nearly reached the night ground, the riders had gathered the cattle into a more compact herd so they weren’t strung out so far. Taking them to water, they spread the Longhorns into bunches to avoid crowding and pushing.
Benteen and Spanish had the barbed wire down by the time the herd reached the watering place. All hell started to break loose when the downed wire began tangling with hoof and horn.
Benteen cursed when he saw what was happening. “Stampede!” He recognized the warning signs a second before the first steer made its mad plunge that sent the whole pack on the run.
The ground rumbled with the thunder of their hooves. Horns popped and rattled as they clashed together. All other duties were forgotten. Benteen took time only to make certain the cattle were headed away from the wagons as he whipped his horse after the stampeding herd. Jonesy was racing just ahead of him, singing at the top of his lungs, “Rock of ages, cleft for me. Let me hide myself in thee.” Many cowboy sinners saw “the light” in the midst of a devil’s stampede. Some superstitious drovers believed a stampeding herd would respond only to hymns.
With Jonesy on a faster horse, Benteen let him overtake the leaders and ride alongside to begin turning them in a slow, wide circle. Luckily, it was a short run, lasting no more than five minutes—the thirsty cattle willing to be brought under control. The bawling started as they began to mill loosely, the riders taking care not to crowd them too tightly in the event of cattle in the center going down and being trampled.
Just when the herd seemed to have settled down, barking dogs started them moving nervously again. Benteen jerked his head toward the sound and saw a bunch of farmers rushing toward the water hole. His mouth thinned into an angry line.
