“Didn’t you hear me, Burnett?” Wylie yelled.
“I heard you,” Luke shouted.
“Slow down.”
“You wait for him if you want.”
Luke wasn’t slowing for anything. He must keep his lead on the legion of horns and hooves that would gore and pound him to a pulp.
“Damn you, Burnett!” Wylie hollered.
Luke realized he hadn’t heard anything from his pa and looked back. His father wasn’t there. Fear gripped him, and he slowed, calling out to Wylie Kurst, “Where’s my pa?”
“Go to hell,” Wylie said.
One of the few mistakes his pa ever made, Luke reflected, was becoming partners with the Kursts.
Wylie was beckoning to Thaxter, who was scarcely a dozen feet ahead of the herd.
Luke faced front just as a dry wash appeared out of nowhere. Luke jabbed his spurs and the sorrel leaped with its front legs flung forward. They reached the other rim, but it was close. The sorrel came down hard, its weight causing the earth to buckle. For a few wild instants Luke thought the sorrel would tumble and take him with it, but somehow the sorrel regained its footing and sped on, its mane flying.
Luke patted its neck. “Good boy,” he said in its ear.
Thaxter had caught up to Wylie and the pair were riding like madmen. After them roiled an ocean of hides and horns.
Luke had never heard of cattle stampeding through woods. Always it was on a plain. But there was a first time for everything.
He wished his pa had never heard about the new cattle drives. Wished that his ma had been able to talk his pa out of it. She had been right all along. The cattle business wasn’t for them. It was too dangerous. They should stick to what they know and forget any fancy dreams of being wealthy.
All the hard work he and the others went to, and for what?
Behind him a horse screamed. Not a whinny. Not a nicker. It uttered a very humanlike scream.
Thaxter’s mount had jumped the dry wash and landed badly. Losing its balance, it fell onto its side and slid.
Thaxter pushed clear and leaped to his feet.
The horse slammed into a tree. A leg splintered, and jagged white bone ruptured out.
Wylie wheeled to his brother’s aid. He leaned down, his arm wide. Thaxter anticipated him and had his own arm up. As slick as could be, Wylie scooped Thaxter into the air and swung his brother on behind him.
Luke didn’t stop. They were on their own.
The ride that ensued was a whirlwind of reining and ducking and dodging and not letting the sorrel slacken once.
He must have gone over a mile when he noticed a change in the din raised by the cattle. The rumbling wasn’t as loud. The longhorns, at long last, had expended their fright. They were slowing. Far fewer were behind him. Soon there weren’t any at all.
To be safe, Luke held to a gallop a while more.
The sorrel was lathered with sweat and gamely would have ridden itself into exhaustion if Luke didn’t finally slow to a walk. Shortly thereafter, he drew rein.
Wylie’s horse was worse off. Bearing double, it rasped like a blacksmith’s bellows, its head hung low. It came to a weary halt.
“We did it,” Luke said. “We survived.”
“No thanks to the Comanches,” Wylie said.
Thaxter was glaring at Luke. “I heard my brother yell to you. Why didn’t you wait for us, you son of a bitch?”
“What would that have done us?” Luke said.
“I could have switched from his horse to yours when his tired.”
“You’re alive, aren’t you?” Luke said.
“Don’t prod me, Burnett.”
Wylie held a hand out toward each of them. “Enough. We barely lived through the stampede and you’re at each other’s throats.”
“I never have liked him,” Thaxter said.
“The feeling is mutual,” Luke said.
“I have half a mind to settle your hash here and now,” Thaxter growled.
“No,” Wylie said.
“Who are you to tell me?” Thaxter said. Sliding off Wylie’s horse, he took several steps to his right, his hand brushing his holster. “How about it, Burnett? Want to settle this once and for all?”
“The Comanches might hear the shots,” Luke said. And swarm down on their heads.
“There will only be one shot, and it will be mine,” Thaxter said. “Climb down, you bastard.”
“Don’t do it, Burnett,” Wylie said.
“Whose side are you on?” Thaxter demanded.
“All our sides,” Wylie said. “We’ve lost Pa. We’ve lost Iden and Silsby. We’ve lost Harland. Jasper, and his son. We don’t need to lose any more.”
“Just him,” Thaxter said, with a nod at Luke.
“What’s gotten into you?” Wylie said. “You pick now of all times?”
“I’ve hated his guts since I can remember,” Thaxter said. “With Pa and Harland gone, I’m the oldest, and I can do as I please. And it pleases me to put a window in his skull for not helping Harland and me try to turn the herd and for not helping you and me when my horse went down.”
“Don’t bite off more than you can chew,” Luke warned.
“I’ll show you,” Thaxter snarled. “Climb the hell down.”
Luke slipped his boots free of the stirrups, and without taking his eyes off Thaxter, he swung his right leg up and over and slid to the ground.
“Thaxter, I’m begging you,” Wylie said.
“Stay out of this,” Thaxter replied. “I never realized what a weak sister you are.”
“Damn you,” Wylie said.
Thaxter half-crouched, his hand poised over his Colt. “This is it, Burnett,” he sneered. “You and me.”
Luke was ready.
“Wylie, count to three,” Thaxter said.
“Go to hell.”
“All right, then. We’ll just do it,” Thaxter said, and his hand flashed to his six-shooter.
So did Luke’s. He drew without thinking, his arm seeming to move on its own. Smoothly, lightning-quick, he cocked the hammer as he swept the Remington up, and fired from the hip.
Thaxter was clearing leather when the slug slammed into his chest. Jolted onto his boot heels, he tried to raise his gun hand, and Luke shot him again, the lead coring Thaxter an inch to the right of the first. Thaxter staggered and once more attempted to raise his arm, and Luke shot him a third time, fanning the hammer.
Thaxter Kurst melted where he stood. His body twitched a few times, and was still.
Luke pointed his Remington at Wylie, but Wylie was staring sadly at his crumpled brother. “What about you?”
“I’ve never hated you Burnetts like he did. He brought this on himself.”
“It’s over?”
“It’s over.”
Luke believed him. He set to reloading and didn’t comment when a tear trickled down Wylie’s cheek.
“Damn him, anyway. Damn Harland, too. And Pa while I’m at it.” Wylie pressed a hand to his forehead. “I was never for this cattle business. It was Pa who wanted to do it. Now’s he dead, and all the others. There’s just me and my ma and my sister.”
“I’ll help you bury the bodies later on,” Luke offered.
“I’m obliged,” Wylie said, and gave a start. “My sis! The last I saw of her, she and your brother were riding for their lives.”
“What about my pa?”
“He turned south a ways back,” Wylie said. “Probably going after Lorette and Sam. I didn’t see what became of them.”
Luke turned to his sorrel and climbed on. “Let’s find out.”
Chapter 67
Owen Burnett wasn’t the best rider in the world. He was a farmer. He spent more time behind a horse pulling a plow than on a horse in the saddle.
So
now, after turning south and then west when he caught sight of his youngest and Lorette Kurst, it was all he could do to rein clear of obstacles and not be swept from the chestnut by a low limb.
It didn’t occur to him that by changing direction he had put his own life in greater peril. Only when the clamorous pounding of hundreds of hooves boomed in his ears did it hit him that the longhorns had halved the distance.
Owen had met a rancher once who’d told him that nothing on God’s green earth rivaled a stampede for what the rancher called “thunderation.” He’d never understood that until now.
Owen swallowed, and whipped his reins. It didn’t help that the chestnut was an ordinary saddle horse. It wasn’t exceptionally fast. It couldn’t gallop forever.
The herd was gaining.
Owen bent low. The wind in his face, the blur of the vegetation—when he was younger he would have loved to ride this fast. Now he only wanted it over.
The cattle, though, showed no signs of flagging.
He emptied his head of all thoughts except to ride, ride, ride. A branch swept at his head and he ducked. Another tore at his left shoulder, ripping his shirt and almost knocking him off his horse. An oak reared and he streaked around it.
He no longer saw Sam and Lorette. They had been to his left but no longer were. Fear froze the blood in his veins. Fear they had been caught and ridden down.
Surely he would have heard screams and cries? They must still be alive, somewhere ahead of him.
I’m coming, son, Owen thought. He recalled the first time he held Sam in his arms, how small and helpless Sam had been. Babies. How anything so fragile could grow to be so big and strong was a wonderment.
Another low limb arced at his face. Owen pressed onto his pommel but it wasn’t low enough. There was a sharp sting; his hat went flying. His head stayed on, and that was something.
Owen straightened, and heard a snort. He risked a glance behind him, and his heart leaped into his throat.
The Ghost was after him. The biggest of them all, the lord of the herd, an engine of destruction, all muscle and horn, and intent on his destruction.
Owen flailed his reins, raked his spurs. But the chestnut was already galloping full-out. It had no extra stamina to call on.
The Ghost snorted and bellowed.
Owen considered yanking his Spencer from the scabbard and trying to shoot the monster before it reached him. He didn’t, though. He wasn’t much of a shot, and even if by some miracle his shot scored, the chance of it bringing the Ghost down was slim. Most likely he would wound it, and wounded animals were notoriously vicious.
“Help me,” Owen breathed.
A thicket flew by, and several boulders, and the chestnut started up another hill. The slope was treacherous but the chestnut game and they reached the top and raced down the far side.
A louder snort caused Owen to dare another look.
Barely three feet separated the chestnut’s tail and the Ghost’s flared nostrils. The bull’s eyes were hellish pits of brute fire.
Owen sensed his doom. With nothing to lose, he reached for the Spencer but he only had it half out when a tremendous blow to the chestnut’s hindquarters elicited a squeal of terror from the horse. He lost his hold on the Spencer, felt the chestnut buckling, and kicked free of the stirrups. Unable to control his fall, he cartwheeled, not once but several times, and crashed to earth with such force, his vision went briefly dark.
A whinny brought Owen back. Not much time had passed. He was on his side with oaks all around, his ribs in agony, his left arm bent under him. Dazed, he raised his head and wanted to cry.
The chestnut was down, too, and struggling to stand as the Ghost drove his long horns in again and again and again.
The rest of the herd had divided and was pounding past, raising a cloud of choking dust.
Pressing flat and curling into a ball, Owen closed his eyes and prayed his end would be swift. The ground under him quaked. The dust became as thick as fog. The thunder went on and maddeningly on, to the point where it seemed it would never end.
Every bone rattled, every sinew was taut.
Owen’s ears rang so loudly, he didn’t realize silence had fallen. Cautiously, he raised his head. The chestnut was pulverized meat and bone.
The Ghost, and the herd, were gone.
Owen slowly sat up. His left arm was broken, but by holding it against his stomach he lessened the pain. He bet several of his ribs were fractured, too.
Using an oak for support, Owen stood. He shuffled a few steps in one direction and then a few steps in another, unsure of which way to go. Swatting at the dust, he coughed and moved in a circle.
“Thank God,” he said.
Sam and Lorette and their mounts were coming out of the cedar. Sam was handling his own reins, but he was pale and his shirt was stained with blood. “Pa,” he said, and smiled.
“Mr. Burnett,” Lorette said. “I kept him alive for you.”
“I can see that,” Owen said, and wanted to hug her.
Sam looked at the ruin that had been the chestnut, and grimaced. “We were lucky.”
“Luckier than blazes,” Lorette amended.
“Amen to that,” Owen said.
Chapter 68
Owen insisted on making camp as night fell so Sam’s arm could be tended to. He also insisted Sam rest.
“Put a splint on me and we can keep going,” Sam argued. “The sooner we get home, the better.”
“Do what your pa says,” Lorette said, “or you’ll have me to answer to.”
To Owen’s surprise, Sam meekly gave in. He kindled a fire while Lorette rigged a splint. She used two tree limbs, trimmed down, and a length of rope. She also fitted a sling over Sam’s arm.
“So it won’t flop around when you’re riding and hurt more,” she said when Sam told her the splint was enough.
Owen smiled when his son gave in a second time. “You two have become pretty closely acquainted, I take it?”
“She’ll be Mrs. Sam Burnett before the year is out,” Sam said.
“Darned right I will,” Lorette said.
All Owen could think of to say was, “Your mother will be plumb surprised.”
Later, the fire crackling softly, stars twinkling in the firmament, Owen hunkered on his heels and sipped coffee from Sam’s tin cup. Sam was lying propped on his saddle, a blanket pulled to his chin.
Rustling in the brush brought Owen to his feet. He’d lost his Spencer, but Sam had given him the Walker. “Who’s there? Speak up or we’ll shoot.”
Lorette leveled her gun.
“It’s only us, Pa.”
Into the firelight rode Luke and Wylie Kurst. Both were caked with dust, and Wylie was downcast.
Luke beamed as he alighted and gave Owen a hug. “We spotted your fire. I never thought I’d see you again.”
Owen had to swallow a lump in his throat to say, “I was worried sick, too.”
“How bad?” Luke asked, indicating the sling on Owen’s arm.
“Busted up a little. Lorette made it for him. She’s a right handy gal to have around and we’ll be having her around a lot.”
Luke went to Sam. “And you, little brother?”
“Never better,” Sam said.
Lorette moved past Owen to her brother’s horse. Wylie hadn’t climbed down yet.
“Where’s Harland?”
“Didn’t you see? The stampede got him.”
“Thaxter?”
Wylie looked at Luke. “The longhorns got him, too.”
Owen saw his oldest glance at Wylie as if surprised. “At least the two of you made it safe.”
“If you say so,” Wylie said.
None of them were hungry. Their ordeal had sapped their appetites.
Weariness drove them to their blankets early. Owen slept fi
tfully. His arm bothered him. So did his ribs if he moved a certain way. Toward morning he got an hour or so of solid sleep, but it wasn’t near enough.
Breakfast consisted of coffee and venison jerky. Sam was eager for them to be on their way, but Owen said no. “You’re as pale as paper yet. You need more rest. Until noon, at least.”
“Tell him I’m fit enough to ride,” Sam appealed to Lorette, who had pressed a palm to his forehead.
“I’ll do no such thing. You’re warm. You might have a fever coming on.” Lorette pried at the bandage. “I hope to God your wound isn’t becoming infected.”
“I have three mas now,” Sam said sullenly.
“Would you rather we don’t check and you become so sick, you die?” Lorette asked.
Sam didn’t answer.
Owen chuckled. “I’m growing right fond of you, Miss Kurst. You have a knack for handling him.”
“He’s male,” Lorette said. “I only say what’s best for him and he knows it, so he gives in.”
Luke spoke up from over by the fire. “My sisters tried the same thing when we were younger, and he never listened.”
“Sisters aren’t the same as wives.”
“You’re getting head of yourself,” Luke said.
“Not by much.”
“That wouldn’t have worked with Pa,” Wylie said. “He never let Ma tell him anything.”
“That’s because Pa spent his whole life thinking he knew better than everyone else. He wouldn’t listen to anybody. Least of all her.” Lorette suddenly stood and pointed to the southeast. “Look yonder. Riders are coming.”
Owen whirled. He’d been worried the Comanches would return and finish what the stampede started. But the men coming down the slope wore hats and clothes and six-guns. Twenty, in all, and at their head a lean figure in buckskins with hair as white as snow and more wrinkles than Methuselah. “Ebidiah Troutman, by God.”
The old trapper brought his horse to a trot. If his smile was any indication, he was genuinely glad to see them. When he dismounted, he clapped Owen on the arms and happily declared, “You’re alive! These townfolk and me reckoned the savages would have done you in by now.”
“They tried,” Owen said. He recognized the marshal and the blacksmith and a clerk at the general store and the man who ran the feed and grain, among others. “All of you came all the way out here looking for us? How did you know we needed help?”
Ralph Compton Texas Hills Page 26
