This Calder Range

by Janet Dailey

  “I was just thinking … since that farmer let us graze the herd on his land, maybe we should do something in return. A favor for a favor,” he suggested lamely.

  “What do you have in mind?” Benteen prompted, without telling the kid what he’d already done.

  “I … thought … I could do his morning chores for him—milk the cow and slop the hogs.” There was an earnest look in his expression.

  “You did, huh?” Benteen took a drink of his coffee, studying the lanky kid over the tin rim. “Maybe you’d better decide whether you want to be a cowboy or a farmer. I never met a cowboy yet who volunteered to slop hogs or milk cows.”

  “I want to be a cowboy.” Joe Dollarhide stiffened, uneasy that Benteen might have guessed being so close to a farm had made him a little homesick for his pa’s farm.

  “How come you aren’t practicing with your rope?” Benteen challenged quietly, because Joe usually practiced off and on all day long, trying to become proficient with that essential tool of the cowboy.

  “I been catchin’ just about everything I swing my rope at—head or heel,” Joe declared. “Ask Yates. I been doin’ it regularly.”

  “In that case, we’ll be needin’ an extra rider on drag this morning. There’s a couple of cows that aren’t going to like the idea of us leavin’ their calves with a farmer. Do you think you could handle the job?”

  “You just give me the job, an’ I’ll show you.” His homesickness was fading now that he was finally getting a chance to be more than just a wrangler’s helper.

  “Then you’d better be thinkin’ about gettin’ your breakfast ate and a horse saddled,” Benteen pointed out. “Everyone else around here is just about ready to fork leather.”

  “Yes, sir.” Joe Dollarhide was grinning as he went back to pick up his plate and wolf down the cold breakfast.

  Benteen shook the dregs out of his empty coffeecup and handed it to Rusty. His glance went briefly to Lorna. “I’m gonna ride out and look over the herd. See you at noon.”

  As he walked toward the saddled horses on the picket line, Lorna studied him with puzzled interest. “Rusty, how did he know that Joe was homesick?”

  “Instinct, I s’pect.” The cook, too, turned a thoughtful look on Benteen. “Some men know cattle, but not a darn thing about workin’ the men lookin’ after the cattle. Handlin’ men is something Benteen just knows.” He sent a sidelong glance at Lorna. “Now, women’s another thing. Your kind is a different breed altogether. Ya ain’t so easily ‘managed.’”

  “Maybe it’s because we don’t want to be ‘managed,’” Lorna suggested.

  “Maybe,” he conceded with an indifferent nod. “By the by, there’s a nice patch of wildflowers in a little ravine that runs behind the chuck wagon here.”

  A smile trembled on her lips, in spite of the modesty she should have felt. “Why, thank you, Mr. Rusty.” Ever since that first occasion, he had always referred to her strolls to answer nature’s call with an inquiry about the wildflowers she’d seen along the way. It had become a private joke between the two of them. Who would ever have thought that she’d be able to laugh about bodily functions with a man?

  When Shorty Niles and Joe Dollarhide had ridden up to the farmhouse with the two newborn calves across their saddles, Lorna had watched from the camp. She smiled when she heard Alfred Jenkins turn and call to his wife. His voice carried all the way to camp.

  “Emma! Emma! Come quick!”

  Lorna knew their blessing that night would include a mention of the windfall. It made her feel good.

  The sweltering temperatures of early July showed no sign of letting up after three days of driving the herd over more treeless prairie. Spanish was the only one who didn’t seem to mind the hot, sweating ride, joking with the other cowhands and insisting his blood was just getting warm. Heat lightning flashed through the heavens three nights running. It made for uneasy times on night herd.

  Benteen slept lightly, bedded on the ground near the wagon. A low voice called him to wake for his turn to watch. It was an unwritten rule that you didn’t wake a sleeping man by touching him or shaking him. You were just as likely to find a gun pointed at you.

  Pushing back the hat shielding his face, he saw Shorty’s outline standing at the foot of his bedroll. The campfire was out, but an overcast sky lit the world of shadows with flashes of sheet lightning. Benteen rolled to his feet.

  “It’s not good out there,” Shorty murmured. “You’d better shuck your metal.”

  Night guards had a greater fear of lightning in a storm than stampeding cattle. They were sitting targets in flat country for the jagged bolts that rained fire out of the sky. The superstition prevailed that it was metal that attracted the lightning to riders, so on stormy nights a cowboy divested himself of his knife and spurs, and some even hid their guns.

  “Wake up Spanish. Tell him he’s drawin’ an extra watch,” Benteen ordered. “Dollarhide’s too green if there’s a storm brewin’.”

  Shorty nodded as Benteen moved to his night horse, a grulla he called Mouse, tied to the wagon tongue, saddled and ready. “Hope you know some church songs.”

  When the three riders rode out to the herd and split up to start their circling route, some of the cattle stood up in a silent acknowledgment of the changing of the guard. A few minutes later, they were lying back down.

  It was quiet, too quiet. Benteen stopped the blue- gray buckskin a couple times just to listen. The warm air was stifling, licked with tension. Flashes of lightning skylighted the cattle, confirming they were all lying down, but he could hear the rumble of distant thunder. And it was coming closer.

  When he passed the kid riding counterclockwise around the herd, Dollarhide was softly crooning an old love song. A little farther on, he met up with Spanish. The Mexican reined in, so Benteen paused, too.

  “The Captain is up.” Spanish passed on the information that the lead steer was on his feet. “He doesn’t like this night either.”

  “Who does?” Benteen murmured, and started his horse forward.

  The brindle steer was not given to spooking, making a steady and reliable leader for the herd. When Benteen saw the steer, it was testing the air, not liking what was out there any more than Benteen did. He tried to soothe the rest of the herd with “The Texas Lullaby,” a tune made up of, not words, but wavering notes. Another steer stood up, motionless and expectant. Then it was by twos and threes they were getting up, until the whole herd was on its feet.

  The sky became black as hell, split with bolts of fire. The air was so thick it seemed suffocating. Suddenly a glowing light appeared on the top of every horn. It was an eerie sight that Benteen had seen once before in his life—this phosphorescent light folklore called by many names. He knew it as St. Elmo’s fire.

  In moments of blackness, there was nothing to be seen but the strange, awesome illumination of more than four thousand horns. Spanish was singing louder from his side of the herd, trying to reassure the beasts that the ghostly lights were nothing to fear. There was a stirring in their numbers as the herd began to mill uneasily.

  A great blue ball of lightning ripped from the sky, momentarily blinding Benteen. There wasn’t even time for a breath before the ground shook with a mighty clap of thunder. But the reverberations that followed were made by the stampeding herd, at a mad run in one leap.

  The grulla nearly jumped out from under Benteen as it bounded in pursuit of the cattle. The sky burst open, dumping buckets of rain and whipping it in sheets. There was no way of knowing where Spanish and Dollarhide were. Benteen couldn’t see where he was going and had no choice but to trust his horse and stay with the panicked mob of cattle.

  Half-blinded by the darkness and the driving rain, he could catch only glimpses of the herd. The eerie glow seemed to dance from horn tip to horn tip, while the heat from their maddened crush of bodies burned the side of his face. There was no time to think of the danger, of a misstep by the horse; it was spur and ride hell for leather to get to
the leaders. One man could turn a herd if he knew how.

  Drumming hooves popped and clicked; horn tips clacked together; and the thunder of the storm raged louder than all of it. The little mouse-gray grulla was stretched out until its belly seemed to scrape the prairie grass. They were racing with the leaders of the stampede, running stride for stride. The mustang under him knew its business and pressed into the leaders to force the turn.

  Once they had started, the rest of the herd followed. Other riders were skylighted, racing with the herd. What began as a wide circle tightened concentrically into a smaller one until they had coiled into a bawling mill.

  The thunder and lightning rolled on across the prairie, but the rain stayed, pouring down steadily. There was no way of telling how much of the herd had scattered in the mad dash, not until morning. The drovers’ job became one of containment to hold the main section of the herd intact.

  The Longhorns had run eight wild long miles from camp. Three cowboys were missing—Spanish, Dollarhide, and Woolie Willis. Any number of things could have separated them from the herd—a horse falling or a rider taking out after another bunch. Nobody speculated on the fate of the missing three.

  The rain stopped before dawn, the clouds peeling away to show the stars. Before first light, Rusty was hitching the team to the chuck wagon and lending a hand to Mary and Lorna with their wagons. When the soft color of morning was tinting the land, they set out in search of the stampeded herd.

  The Longhorns had left a wide trail of trampled grass and churned earth. Along the route, Lorna saw several of the drovers—looking for stray cattle, she presumed. A couple of them stopped, had a word with Rusty, and rode on.

  Jessie and Ely were holding the main body of the herd when they arrived. Rusty picked the most likely spot to set up a camp and pulled in the team. Unhitching the horses from the wagon, he left their harnesses on and tied them up.

  “You ladies want to give me a hand?” he called to Lorna and Mary. “Those boys is wet and tired. They’ll be wantin’ coffee and some hot grub as soon as they can get it.”

  “I’ll get a fire going,” Lorna volunteered, and hopped down from the wagon seat.

  “There’s some dry wood and chips in the cooney,” Rusty told her.

  The coffee was boiling good when the first riders approached the new camp. Lorna could see the steam rising from the horses’ wet hides. One of the riders spurred his horse to reach camp before the others. Vince Garvey swung out of the saddle, staggering a bit with tiredness.

  “They’re bringin’ Woolie in. Broke his leg,” he informed Rusty, and dragged himself to the fire to pour a cup.

  Lorna caught the flicker of relief in Rusty’s face, but he growled cantankerously, “And just what am I supposed to be usin’ for splints in this treeless hell?” He quickly bobbed his head at Mary and Lorna. “Beggin’ your pardon.”

  “That’s your problem, sawbones.” Vince drank down his coffee. “Bust up the wagon, I guess.” His horse was still standing where the cowboy had dropped the reins, its head hanging low. “Sure hope Yates gets his remuda rounded up,” Vince remarked. “These horses are about to drop.”

  “What about Spanish and Dollarhide?” Rusty asked.

  There was a long pause while Vince poured another shot of the black coffee into his cup. “They won’t be needing your help.”

  For an instant, it didn’t sink in. Lorna hadn’t been aware the two riders were missing, so the significance of Vince’s reply initially missed her, until she saw the long faces of the men riding in.

  “They’re dead.” She had to say it aloud, even then she didn’t believe it. “What happened?”

  Vince glanced at her, then looked at Rusty and shrugged a nonanswer. The riders entered camp and dismounted, all except one. The injured cowboy was hunched over the saddle, his face sickly pale. Benteen was among the trailhands that carefully lifted Woolie to the ground. His hat tumbled off, revealing the thick mass of curling blond hair that had given him his nickname. He groaned in pain when Rusty probed the length of his left leg.

  “This ought to rate me some of your snakebite remedy, Rusty.” Woolie grunted the words in his effort to keep in the pain. The cook was the guardian of the sole bottle of alcohol brought on the drive—for snakebite purposes.

  “You got a broke leg, not a snakebite,” Rusty grumped. “But I reckon a couple of swallows might help ’fore I set this leg.”

  When he went to the chuck box to fetch it, he motioned Mary and Lorna to come over. Lorna was still numbed by the news of young Joe Dollarhide’s death, and the Mexican-Indian Spanish Bill.

  “Do you reckon you two ladies can hold Woolie down while I straighten his leg?” Rusty murmured. “He ain’t likely to struggle much with the two of you lookin’ on. He’d want to show you how brave he is.”

  Lorna glanced uncertainly at Mary. “I guess so.”

  “You just set the leg, Rusty,” Mary stated. “Lorna and I will see that he doesn’t give you any trouble.”

  Rusty uncorked the bottle and filled a tin cup with the liquor. He carried it over and handed it to Benteen, who crouched beside the injured cowboy. While Rusty returned to the wagon to get some rawhide strips and pry off a board, Benteen helped Woolie partially sit up. Woolie gulped down half of it, choked on a cough, then finished it.

  “My God, Rusty,” he declared hoarsely as Benteen lowered him to the ground. “You sure that stuff ain’t to kill snakes?”

  “Maybe that’s what the label said.” Rusty paused to break the board slat in half with his knee. “Never could read too good.” He waved Lorna and Mary toward the prone cowboy. “Each of you grab an arm.”

  As Lorna knelt beside him, Benteen stepped back out of the way. Woolie tried to grit his teeth against the pain and smile at the same time.

  “Look at me, fellas,” he called to the other drovers. “I got a lady on each arm. Bet you’re wishin’ you was me.”

  Lorna had never seen anyone in physical pain before. It was impossible for her to be indifferent. She was tensing in sympathy for him when Rusty laid the wood slats on the ground beside Woolie’s left leg, holding the rawhide strings between his teeth.

  “Hold on tight,” he said through them, and took hold of the left boot.

  “I’ll try not to swear, ladies,” Woolie said, trying again to smile. “But I hope you’ll be pardonin’ my language if anything slips out.”

  “We will,” Lorna whispered as her hands gripped his arm and shoulder to hold him flat.

  Her gaze stayed riveted to his white face. She couldn’t bring herself to look to see what Rusty was doing. Beads of perspiration started popping out all over his face as Woolie clamped his teeth shut. His features were contorted with pain. Lorna wished he’d cry out. His body jerked from Rusty’s sharp pull; then he let out an agonizing groan and went limp.

  “Passed out,” Rusty declared. “You can let go of him now.”

  As Lorna sat back on her heels, she felt weak inside. Benteen’s hands closed on her shoulders to help her to her feet. She half-turned to him, a little pale. His glance seemed to run over her with disinterest.

  “Better get some coffee,” he advised.

  When she glanced to see if Mary was coming, her friend was helping Rusty tie the boards tight and straight to keep the leg bone in position. Lorna felt helpless. She thought she had learned to cope with everything that could possibly be thrown at her, yet she’d never had to handle an injury before.

  She wandered to the fire, not really wanting any coffee, but she poured a cup anyway. Cupping it in her hands, she drifted to the edge of the circle, away from the silent group of cowboys. It wasn’t her intention to eavesdrop, but when they started talking quietly among themselves, she couldn’t help overhearing.

  “I’ll bet Spanish never knew what hit him,” Bob Vernon murmured.

  “They say the hair stands up on the back of your neck just before lightning hits you,” Vince Garvey offered, and Lorna felt her blood run cold. A bolt of l
ightning had killed Spanish.

  “Yeah, well, there’s one consolation,” Shorty muttered. “Spanish hated the cold. I never liked the idea of bein’ fried myself, but it mighta been the way he’d a-chose.”

  “I sure wish we’d a-found somethin’ of the kid to bury.” Zeke Taylor shook his head. “It don’t seem right.”

  “Them cattle did the buryin’ when they trampled him into the ground.” Shorty bolted down a swig of coffee as if it were liquor.

  Lorna felt sick to her stomach. She turned and stumbled to her wagon, gripping the side and leaning weakly against it. Her hand covered her mouth. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to stem the rising nausea or stifle the sobs choking her throat. She kept remembering the time Joe Dollarhide had told her about the ranch he wanted to have someday, and how eager he had been to become a cowboy. He was just a young farmboy a long way from home. Now there wouldn’t even be a grave to mark where he lay.

  “Lorna.” It was Benteen.

  She swallowed hard. “I was … just thinking about Joe … and how much he wanted to be a cowboy.”

  “Drink your coffee.”

  She hadn’t realized it was still in her hand until he carried the cup to her mouth and tipped it to force her to drink. Its bitter strength stiffened her. She brought her gaze up to his face, so lacking in emotion.

  “He was so young, Benteen,” she murmured. “Doesn’t his death mean anything to you? Or Spanish?”

  “You aren’t the only one who has to say good-bye to friends, Lorna.” His voice was as flat as his expression. “I think mine have been more final than yours.”

  When he turned and walked away, she felt both pity and guilt. He couldn’t show his grief, because that wasn’t part of his code. But it was there, she realized. Why hadn’t she seen through his closed-in expression?

  Breakfast was being dished up when Yates, the horse wrangler, drove more than half the remuda close to camp. With fresh horses to ride, there was no more reason to tarry over the meal and give tired horses a chance to rest. Over five hundred head of Longhorns had scattered in the stampede. They had to be rounded up and brought back to the main herd. There wasn’t time to rest or mourn the dead.