The Independence Trail

by Lyle Brandt

  “We still have them outnumbered six to one,” said Marshal Whitesell, butting in. “I have to say I like those odds.”

  “And then subtract the number of our womenfolk and children, if you please,” Butler replied, a tinge of color rising in his flaccid jowls.

  “Still makes it four to one,” Whitesell replied.

  “We’re getting off the point here,” Harding said, trying to bring them back on track. “Our plan is not to fight the drovers and annihilate them, but to carry out negotiations satisfying to both sides.”

  “Imagining that they’ll be ‘satisfied’ to ransom their own cattle,” Butler said.

  Butler was frowning at the jurist now. “What’s on your mind, Odell?” he asked. “Unless it was a dream I had, you were in favor of the plan on Tuesday week. What’s giving you these second thoughts?”

  “Our other . . . operations, shall we say . . . were on a more reserved and modest scale. At most, we dealt with half a dozen individuals, or with some company back east that could absorb the loss.”

  It was the lawyer’s turn, Crull leaning in toward Butler as he said, “You’ve already signed off on this, Your Honor”—maybe stressing that for irony—“and if you pull out now, there could be . . . repercussions.”

  Glowering, their justice of the peace replied, “I don’t take kindly to your threats, Tilman.”

  “What threats, Odell? If you’ve been stricken with a bout of conscience, maybe you should think about refunding all the cash you’ve pocketed on other deals before today.”

  “Now listen here!” the judge began to bluster.

  “No,” Mayor Harding intervened. “We’ve said and heard enough. The plan’s in operation and we’ll see it through. If anybody wants to cut loose afterward, they’re free to go their own way—with the understanding that their lips stay sealed for good.”

  Three pairs of eyes bored into Butler, Jed Findlay staying out of it, until the judge nodded and softly said, “All right. We go ahead.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Losing Julius Pryor had played havoc with the night watch, shaving down the number of free evenings that any given drover could expect. Beyond that, though, Art Catlin didn’t find the workload that much heavier than when they’d had one extra hand to help.

  He still wondered about where Julius had gone, of course, hoping the guilt he carried had not broken him. When Catlin had been six or seven years of age, one of his schoolmates’ fathers had committed suicide, sticking a shotgun’s muzzle underneath his chin to blow away his money troubles. From later talk Catlin had overheard, that buckshot blast had wrecked a bedroom ceiling but did nothing to relieve the dead man’s widow or their children from the debts that burdened them. They’d disappeared from town without a word to anyone after their house and other property were repossessed by an unsympathetic bank.

  It was six days now since Pryor had pulled his disappearing act, and Catlin had begun to phase him out of short-term memory. Why cling to mental images of someone he would likely never see again—or, if he did, would have no clue on how to deal with?

  Catlin had never made friends easily, and once out on his own had seen no pressing need to try. When he’d begun collecting bounties, mention of the way he made his living was enough to put most people off, besides a few who pestered him with morbid questions till Art put them in their place. Since riding out of Santa Fe, he had been cordial with the other Bar X drovers, but he couldn’t see them being lifelong pals who stayed in touch no matter how their paths diverged. He felt no need for that and reckoned that the others shared his view.

  Granted, that attitude might need adjustment if he hung around the Bar X once the drive was over, but he wouldn’t have to ponder that decision till they got the herd to Independence and were paid off for their labors on the trail. Another week at least, and likely more, before he had to face that choice.

  Until then, he would take it one day at a time and wait to see what happened next.

  * * *

  * * *

  Bliss Mossman didn’t like to think he was a superstitious man. He’d never seen a ghost or feared a black cat passing by, had walked beneath some ladders on occasion, didn’t put off doing anything on Friday the thirteenth, and never suffered bad luck—much less seven years of it—after he’d dropped a mirror.

  Even so, he had begun to wonder if this cattle drive was somehow cursed.

  A dozen times, he’d driven herds to market and had always suffered some mishaps along the way. Steers came up lame or died along the way from sundry causes, and he took the loss in stride. Julius Pryor wasn’t the first drover who’d deserted Mossman, though he’d vanished with less warning than the others—mostly drunks, plus one sneak thief who might have caught a beating from the other cowboy’s if he’d stuck around.

  And yes, he’d seen employees killed before, not only on trail drives, but at the Bar X spread itself. Things happened sometimes when you worked around large animals, men packing guns, working with cutting tools and branding irons. Mortality was part of life. Each birth carried a death sentence along with it before the newborn even had a chance to sin.

  But this time out, between the sandstorm, the Apaches, and the Comancheros, Mossman almost had to wonder if he’d crossed some bruja that he didn’t even know about. The present drive to Independence had already seen more dangers than the last three seasons he could think of put together.

  Mossman would be glad to see the end of it, and no mistake.

  And yet, watching his drovers go about their jobs this morning, Mossman never would have guessed that they had been through hell and back again.

  Well, most of them.

  Roughly one hundred miles to go, and if they met no further obstacles before the time came for crossing the Missouri River—

  “Damn it!” Mossman muttered to himself.

  He’d likely jinxed it now by picturing their final ten days or so being trouble-free.

  And there it was again, the silly superstition that made some folks who’d spilled salt at supper toss a few grains over their left shoulders, hang a horseshoe over their front doors, or drop a penny in a wishing well to grant their hearts’ desires.

  Ridiculous.

  No one who Mossman knew was out to get him, and the ones who’d tried before were mostly underground. As far as risks from nature went, no one could claim immunity from rain, wind, lightning, or the rest of it.

  A man did what he had to do and soldiered through it—until one day he did not.

  The good news on that score was this: when Mossman’s time ran out at last, he had a sneaking hunch he wouldn’t know the difference.

  * * *

  * * *

  Back on the road again, and Jed Findlay reckoned it was just as well. Most times, he’d rather be out in the open air than cooped up in stuffy room with men who paid his salary while looking down their noses at him.

  Jed wasn’t happy with the way Odell Butler had tried to weasel out of their agreement when he started having second thoughts. It wasn’t like the others counted on their justice of the peace to wield a gun if anything went wrong. He only had to witness, sign, and notarize a simple contract binding under Kansas law, as long as no one raised the sticky question of coercion later on.

  What was the worst thing that could happen? Findlay frowned, thinking of two in turn.

  If the trail boss and his drovers made their minds up to play rough, reject the bargain offered to them, and decide to shoot it out. In that case, Findlay didn’t know who would come out on top or even manage to survive the clash.

  The second possibility involved Judge Butler backing out again, once livestock from the herd had been sequestered prior to ransoming. In that event, Findlay supposed it might be necessary to remove Butler and have somebody else replace him, sworn in by the mayor as Longwood’s new, more amiable
justice of the peace.

  If that occurred, would Bert Whitesell get rid of Butler on his own, or pass the grunt work to his deputy, Alonzo Markland? Might the two of them together even try to foist the job off onto Jed, knowing that he didn’t mind pulling a trigger now and then?

  Findlay decided not to think about that now. Butler controlled his own fate, and Jed had other, more important work to do. Tracking the herd for starters, making sure it stayed on course for Longwood’s designated team to intercept.

  And his toughest job was a last-minute thing, requiring him to infiltrate the trail drive’s camp, present himself as just another drifter—maybe even one in search of work—and be on hand to help out when the raid went down.

  The more he studied on it, the more Jed thought asking for work might be the way to go. He knew such things occurred from time to time—he’d cadged a three-week job that way himself, some four years back—and Findlay reckoned he could sell his story easily enough.

  But if the drive had ample hands already, and the trail boss wasn’t feeling charitable . . . well, Findlay knew he could come up with something else. Even a supper with the crew could be enough to let him get a sense of them and carry word back to his bosses as to what they might be facing in a showdown.

  In which case, he would have to reconsider standing in the line of fire.

  * * *

  * * *

  Bert Whitesell lit a thin, gnarly cheroot and drew its bitter smoke into his lungs. If asked, he could not have explained why he still smoked the rancid things, but since no one appeared to care—or else kept their objections under wraps—no excuse for his bad habit was required.

  Seated across from Whitesell, studying the marshal’s boot soles where Whitesell had propped them on the corner of his desk, Chief Deputy Alonzo Markland chewed a toothpick, frowning as he tried to frame some comment that he seemed to think his boss might not appreciate.

  “Chief deputy” was overstating Markland’s rank—he was the Longwood marshal’s only deputy, in fact—but it was stamped onto the tin star that was Whitesell’s only other badge, which narrowed down their options. On occasion, Whitesell swore in other part-time backup as required, and he was running through a mental list of names while waiting for Alonzo to make up his mind and speak.

  The best part of a minute later, Markland asked, “You think we might be going overboard this time, Bert?”

  If they hadn’t been alone, Whitesell would have reminded his subordinate to call him “Marshal,” but it hardly mattered with nobody else around.

  “It stands to be a big payday,” Whitesell reminded Markland.

  “If we live to spend it,” said his second-in-command.

  “You got cold feet, Alonzo?”

  “Not this child,” Markland replied, making a face to sell his point. “But on the other hand . . .”

  “Just spit it out.”

  “I’d rather not get kilt unless there’s no avoiding it.”

  The marshal took another drag on his cheroot and fouled the office air.

  “I got no reason to believe the plan won’t go the way Mayor Harding and them others got it all laid out,” Whitesell replied.

  “You call that tub o’ guts the mayor, even when he ain’t around?”

  “I make a habit of it,” Whitesell granted. “Helps me not to make any mistakes.”

  “We both know he only got elected ’cause he gave out shots o’ whiskey at the polls. Same thing with Butler.”

  “And same thing for me,” the marshal said, “in case it slipped your mind. You, on the other hand, just owe your job to me alone.”

  “I ain’t forgetting that,” Markland assured him. “I don’t wanna see you getting ventilated, neither.”

  “That’s mighty white o’ you, Alonzo.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “I know what you’re saying, and you’d best not let them others hear you.”

  “Yeah, all right.”

  “And don’t go getting snippy with me, neither. You want someone else to wear that badge, just leave it when you head off to the livery.”

  “Okay! I hear you, boss.” Laying it on a tad too thick.

  “Before you break out in a sweat,” Whitesell went on, “I’ve got some other boys lined up to help us if the drovers want to play it tough.”

  “What are they gonna use for badges?” asked Alonzo.

  “I was thinking armbands, like that other time with the sheepherders.”

  Markland had to grin at that. “I reckon that could do it,” he conceded.

  “So, I’ve put your mind at ease?”

  “At least until the lead starts flying.”

  “Shouldn’t come to that, supposing that the trail boss is a reasonable man. But if it does, I’d best not catch you trying to run out on me, Alonzo.”

  “Hell, you know me, Bert!”

  “That’s why I mentioned it. You show up for the party, I’ll expect you to be dancing like the rest of us.”

  “You know I will.”

  “I know you’d better.” Whitesell drove it home. “Or else, you just might have a nasty accident.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Art Catlin finished mopping up the last dregs of his sausage gravy with a biscuit, stuffed that in his mouth, and chewed it slowly while he watched steam rising from his coffee cup.

  “Breakfast for supper,” Piney Rollins called it, and it hadn’t been half-bad. Fried eggs, with gravy on potatoes—also fried, of course—and Catlin wondered if tomorrow morning Piney wouldn’t stand the whole thing on its head, serving them supper to begin their day.

  At least, he thought, it was a change of pace.

  The past couple of days, he’d half expected that Julius Pryor might return to join them, but by now Catlin guessed that ship had well and truly sailed. He didn’t miss Julius in the way he might have felt a true friend’s passing, but of late Art found himself watching the other cowboys, checking them for subtle signs of getting weary, standing on the verge of giving up.

  Maybe that happened all the time on cattle drives. Art couldn’t say, this trip being his first, but he could see how certain men might tire of the routine and call it quits instead of playing out the string.

  He rose from where he’d been sitting with Linton McCormick and Job Hooper, saying, “See you out there in a little bit.”

  The others, on first watch with Catlin, nodded without speaking, both men concentrating on the task of finishing their meals. The best thing about drawing first shift—and the only good thing Art could think of—was getting that extra work out of the way and sleeping through the night uninterrupted until dawn broke in the east.

  Catlin had no reason to think that either of his fellow watchmen would desert their posts during the night, but he would doubtless still be watching them as time allowed, alert to any deviation from the circuits they’d be following around the herd. And why not? With the longhorns resting peacefully, no sign of troublesome coyotes in a week or more, how else was he supposed to pass the time?

  And if one of them did try sneaking off into the night, what should he do about it? Fire a warning shot and rouse the camp to hot pursuit of the defector? Was it his role to control the other Bar X hands, rather than riding herd on livestock?

  No.

  But if another drover disappeared on Catlin’s watch, he knew it would reflect on him as well, whether that blame was justified or not.

  So, he would keep his eyes open, remain alert, and determine his response when something happened, if it happened.

  And in that event, he’d let the chips fall where they might.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sterling Tippit tried to duck the restless feeling that had troubled him since sundown, but he couldn’t seem to shake it. There was nothing he could put a fin
ger on, as far as what was making him uneasy, but it seemed to go beyond the extra weight of caution that he felt near the conclusion of a drive.

  They were so close to Independence, relatively speaking, but he knew that anything might still go wrong and cost the Bar X everything.

  As midnight neared, the foreman knew he had to get some sleep and leave the outfit’s posted guards to do their job without him hovering around them like a mother hen. His watchful presence, riding herd on them, was likely to distract them from their tasks at hand and prod them toward careless mistakes.

  At least Tippit had satisfied himself, to the extent that it was possible, that no human intruders had the herd under surveillance, waiting for a chance to strike and make off with whatever they could steal. Granted, he had no ironclad guarantee that someone wasn’t watching from a distance, laying plans, but he could only do so much staying awake all night, running his blood bay to a frazzle so that it was worn-out come the dawn and their departure from the campsite.

  Turning in was one thing, though, while drifting off to sleep was something else entirely.

  As he lay down on one blanket, with another on top, Sterling was fully dressed except for boots, prepared within his limits for whatever rude surprise might interrupt his night. His Sharps carbine rested at his left-hand side; his Colt Dragoon—still holstered, with its hammer thong unfastened—covered by his right hand as he tried to make himself relax.

  The sound of someone walking by alerted Tippit, made him crack an eyelid, recognizing Bliss Mossman by firelight. He supposed the boss felt even more vague worries weighing on his mind and hoped they both could manage a few hours’ rest before another long day overtook them.

  Waiting for unconsciousness to find him in the darkness, Tippit listened to familiar sounds that he was long accustomed to: the longhorns dozing, softly snoring, while a few of them still grazed; one of the first shift’s watchmen speaking softly to the steers, as if to reassure them that their long trek led to peaceful pastures rather than a slaughterhouse; spare mounts in the remuda snorting now and then, responding to some new scent on the breeze.