by John Foxjohn
The soft clomp of horses’ hooves in thick grass drew his attention to the east, and dashed all thoughts of lying in the water. This must have been what Big Red had sensed.
Continuing across the water, he ducked low and followed a washout to the east. He was halfway around the pinnacle when a man spoke. His breath stilled as he recognized Lloyd Stephen’s voice. What was he doing out here? Was he the one who had Abbey?
A whip or something like it cracked in the still morning air. The foreboding sound drove Andy forward, his pulse skittering around his insides.
Primal rage exploded through Andy when he topped the small hill. Twenty yards below him, Lloyd Stephens leaned down and ripped Abbey’s blouse off. The ripping sound tore through Andy.
Andy was halfway to them when he ripped the last part of Abbey clothes off, exposing her breasts. Andy, holding the rifle, almost bent the metal when Stephens slapped her.
Lloyd Stephens, so engrossed on Abbey’s nakedness, never heard or sensed Andy’s approach, but Abbey’s gaze met his.
Before Stephens could follow her gaze, she leaned back on both hands, uncovering her breasts, and spread her legs. Without a doubt she did it to distract Stephens, but the sight also stopped Andy in his tracks.
When he was within five feet, Stephens dropped his gun belt and began to undo his pants.
Abbey’s voice tumbled through her cracked lips. “I can’t stop you. You can take all you want. All you have to do is get through the man behind you.”
The man’s grunt said he didn’t believe her, and he continued to undo his pants.
With jaws clenched as tight as a bear trap, Andy said, “I don’t think you need to do that.”
He spun to face Andy, his hand dropping for the gun that was usually at his waist, but now lay at his feet. The man stood to face Andy, big and dirty. His long-sleeved white shirt was filthy with stains on the front and dark dirt rings around the armpits and collar.
What stood out the most was Stephens’ swollen mouth with his top lip ripped in two and hanging.
This was not the same man who strolled the streets of Heath as if he owned them.
Stephens glanced at the rifle pointed at his chest, and then down to his gun at his feet. “You don’t give a man much of a chance.”
Andy shrugged, “You’re not much of a man.”
As Andy studied him, a shiver sped up his backbone. Something was wrong. Stephens should be more scared. Also, something wasn’t right with the way he was standing. His left arm hung down by his side, but he had his right arm cocked at an odd angle across his chest with his hand over his heart.
“I’ve been waiting a long time to get you alone,” Stephens said. He held up his big left hand. “As big as you are, I’d tear you apart with these hands. No man has ever been able to stand up to me hand to hand. You put that rifle down and we’ll see who the best man is.”
A pulse ticked at Andy’s temples. He glanced at Abbey, who remained where she was, eyes wide with fear.
Without a doubt, Andy knew he shouldn’t put the rifle down. He shouldn’t play Lloyd Stephen’s game, but the way he treated Abbey, hitting her, humiliating her, and the threat of what he was about to do to her, drove Andy. “Me and you, man to man.”
“If you got the guts to try me, set that rifle down.”
Ten feet separated them when Andy bent, his gaze locked on Stephens. He set the rifle down and rose to his full height.
The man’s mouth did something that could have been a smile, but it was difficult to tell. A jolt like lightning fizzled through Andy.
“I never thought you’d be stupid enough to put your rifle down. When I am through with you, I plan to finish ripping Abbey’s clothes off and then we are going to have some fun.”
Andy licked his dry lips. Stephens seemed too sure of himself. Why? He didn’t have a gun.
“Going to talk me to death?” Andy asked.
Stephens’ right arm, the one he held at an odd angle, shot forward.
He didn’t know what Stephens was doing but jumped sideways. As he moved, a small gun materialized in Stephens’ hand and exploded.
The bullet whiffed by Andy’s head and would have hit him if he hadn’t moved.
Diving for the rifle, Andy caught it, cocked it, and rolled all in one motion.
As Andy came up on one knee, the rifle extended, another bullet snapped close to his ear, leaving a stinging sensation.
The man now had fear on his face as Andy stared over the rifle barrel at him. The derringer he’d hid up his sleeve held two shots and he’d fired both of them.
Dropping the gun and holding up both hands, Stephens said, “You can’t just shoot me.”
Through gritted teeth, Andy asked, “Why not? That’s what you tried.”
“You got to take me someplace for a trial,” Stephens choked out.
“I plan to take you someplace.”
Hope billowed into Stephens’ face. “Where?”
“Assimilate,” Andy said as he squeezed the trigger.
The creak of wagon wheels, straining leather, and the plod of hooves woke the still morning as the sun winked in the sky. The sounds blended with the smell of urine and manure as the horse teams strained to pull the cook wagon and another driven this morning by Berta. Cap had kissed her goodbye as the two wagons followed Johnny, who would act as scout the first day.
Johnny’s job was to look for trouble, but more than that, a travel route. It would make it a lot easier if they could draw a straight line north and head that way without detouring, but that wasn’t going to happen. There would be areas they would need to drive around. While scouting ahead, he would also look for water and a good place to stop for the noon meal and an overnight campsite.
Cap mounted his horse with a lump in his throat and a fluttering in his stomach. He couldn’t count the number of cattle drives he’d been on, but this would be the fourth he’d ramrodded. Whether he was driving them or bossing the ones who were, he always felt anxiety. He had people’s lives in his hands.
He swallowed hard. All drives were different except that all were dangerous, but with Berta, this one was different in other ways. Neither he nor any of the men had ever been on a cattle drive with a woman along.
It would take a gigantic effort on the part of the men to curb language that was almost second nature on a drive—language they could not use in the presence of a lady.
With longing, he watched as Berta’s wagon disappeared from sight. They’d been married two days before and had two nights together before the drive began. He’d suggested she wait and take the train and not have to deal with the hardships of the drive, but she refused, to his relief. He didn’t want her to have to endure the hardship of the drive, but he wanted to be with her.
Robert Bishop, a large Texan by way of Tennessee, who in some ways reminded him of Bull, pulled his horse alongside of Cap. With the exception of Cap and Johnny, and his riding partner, Walter Goff, Bishop had the most experience with cows.
“We ready, Cap?”
Cap glanced where the wagon had disappeared for a long moment before turning to Bishop. “As ready as we’ll ever be—I guess.”
It was hot and humid even at that time of morning. Bishop removed his hat and swiped sweat from his brow. “Ain’t no way to predict how a drive will go,” Bishop said. “Or prepare for every problem. Handle each one as they come the best you can. No one can ask more of you.”
He was right. “Move em out.”
Bishop wheeled his horse away. “Let’s go,” he yelled.
Snapping leather as well as bawling cows replaced Bishop’s words as the herd headed north. On every cattle drive Cap had ever seen, at the beginning, one cow always took the lead. In most cases, that cow would lead the drive the entire trip, and this would be no exception.
As the cows moved, a big rangy longhorn, almost white, except with black spots like a Holstein milk cow, took the lead. Although the cow looked like a Holstein, the rack of horns spreading almos
t seven feet, said otherwise.
There were two schools of thought about the start of a drive. Some believed in moving the cows slowly, letting them browse and build weight instead of losing it with a hurried pace. Others, including Cap, believed it was best to drive the herd hard, especially that first day—tire them out—make them so conscious of trying to keep up, they didn’t think about trying to head home.
The herd on a normal good day would travel twelve miles. A fast-paced day they’d see fifteen. Cap wanted them to make twenty.
He had a few reasons for this: first, a tired herd didn’t stampede as often as a rested one. Second, it was easier to guide them when they weren’t trying to turn back. And third, he wasn’t driving these cows to market to sell. How much weight they had on them at the end of the drive didn’t matter. They would have a year or more to gain it back before they sold them.
Of course with any cattle drive, Cap’s reasons only worked when the conditions were right. Longhorn cattle would stampede for many reasons that no one had any control over—sometimes only the cows knew the reason.
His fast pace on the first day would tire out the cows, but it would also wear out the men and horses driving them. He wasn’t too much worried about the men, but he didn’t have enough horses. On average, each man would use between seven and ten horses a day, but he only had five horses per man. He’d looked all around San Antone for good cow horses, and bought all that were available. His problem: there weren’t that many good ones available, and it was better to ride a good tired horse than a bad rested one. They’d have to make do unless he could find some on the trail.
On the day before the drive began, Cap had ten cowhands hired, Flapjack, a rouser—someone who would assist Flapjack, and a horseman to handle the remuda—the extra horses.
Cap was satisfied he had enough people to drive the thirty-five hundred head if everything went well. As he and Johnny dickered with the owner of a wagon outside the San Antone corral, a boy, rail thin, dressed in tattered homespun cloths, shuffled up to him. The boy stood, hands jammed into his pockets, glancing at the ground until Cap finished talking.
“Do you want to speak to me?” Cap asked.
Stuttering, the boy said, “Ye—s, sir. “You still—hiring for the—drive?”
“How old are you, boy?”
The boy shifted his feet. “Ah—almost—eighteen.”
Johnny and Cap glanced at each other, and Johnny let out a loud, “Hmpf.”
Cap cocked his head and arched an eyebrow. Under a steady gaze, the boy dropped his.
“Al—most eighteen—will be in a—a couple of –years.”
Rolling his eyes, Cap asked, “Do your parents know where you are?”
“Ain’t got any. Plague done—wiped them—out.”
The boy continued to stare at the dirt as Cap studied him. Finally Cap sighed and asked, “What’s your name?”
“Willie—Barnes, sir.”
Cap puckered his lips and nodded. He wasn’t too much unlike this kid when he hired on for his first drive. “Willie, I am only hiring men, or people who can do a man’s job. If that’s you, you can go with us.” He jabbed a finger at the boy. “If you prove you can’t or won’t do a man’s part, I’ll leave you right there. You understand?”
When the boy nodded, Cap indicated Johnny with his thumb. “Get your possibles and meet Johnny at the herd. He’ll get you set up.”
That’s how Cap ended up with his third drag rider and gopher.
As dust billowed around the moving herd, Robert Bishop and Walter Goff rode front flank to guide the cows.
The first hour of the drive was backbreaking for man and horse. The cows had settled in with grass and water and didn’t want to leave it. Even though they were pushing them hard, many still tried to go back.
Constantly on the move, Cap helped one side out and then the other. He’d changed to his third horse by the time the sun peaked high overhead, and headed back to the drag, a job no one wanted in this heat driving this many cows.
Along with Willie, they’d assigned Henry Clemmons and Samuel Riley, both in their late teens, the drag job. As the last of the herd passed, Cap spotted one of the drag riders. From the rider’s build, Cap figured it was Sammy. That was the only way he had of telling. Dirt covered the rider from face to foot. He’d started out with a blue bandana wrapped around the lower portion of his face. Now, many layers of dirt caked it, leaving a line across the face where the bandana began.
Just above the line, a pair of eyes protruded from the dust.
“How’s Willie doing?” Cap asked.
“He tries hard,” Sammy said. “He’ll learn.”
“In a couple of days,” Cap said, “When we have the herd settled down, I plan to rotate you and Henry to the flank position so you can learn what to do. No telling what will happen on a drive this long.”
Cap rode on when Sammy nodded. This was the boy’s second drive. He was inexperienced but knew the dangers.
They were at least an hour past noon when they spotted the cook wagon. Texas had a saying, “If you don’t like the weather, just wait, it’ll change.” In that hour, from noon until they spotted the cook wagon, it changed.
Dark clouds overtook the oppressive sun, which was a relief in some ways, but in the distance, they could see the rain. Nothing scared a cowboy driving cattle more than a prairie storm—mainly because there wasn’t much that scared the cows more.
After the noon meal, which they ate standing in the rain, the two wagons pushed ahead and they drove the cows even harder.
In full darkness, the herd finally caught up with the wagons. The men dismounted and with the exception of the two who had first shift at guarding, unsaddled beat horses. Toting the saddles, the men trudged into camp. Flapjack met them with a pot of beans they called “Mexican Strawberries,” biscuits, and scalding black coffee so thick they could almost cut it. For dessert, they had a Flapjack original called spotted pup. It was cooked rice with brown sugar and raisins.
Cap ate in the wagon with Berta, who was tired and sore from driving the team. She’d driven a team before but never for that long. Even as tired as she was, worry lines creased her forehead and showed in her voice. “We’ll have problems, tonight, won’t we?”
Some men liked to protect women by not letting them worry. He felt he should be able to tell her the truth. “We might. If the weather stays like this, we’ll be okay. Cows are too dumb to let rain affect them. It’s thunder and lightning that they have a hard time with.”
He sipped some of the pungent coffee. “If anything happens, you come to the wagon and get in.” He glanced at her over the cup. “No matter what happens, get in the wagon. You’ll be as safe there as anywhere, and I’ll know where to find you.”
She leaned forward and caught his hand. “You won’t be coming to bed tonight?”
“Probably not.” Cap sighed with regret.
When he’d finished stalling over his coffee, he took the dishes and put them in the wreck pan, and found Johnny. “Who’s on night guard?”
Thunder rumbled close to help emphasize his question.
“Henry, Bishop, and Willie.” Johnny blew out a breath.
“Okay, let’s get Goff and Crowley out with them. Except for Bishop, they’re too inexperienced for a night like this.”
Johnny nodded as lightning flashed in the distance.
“Anything else?” Johnny asked.
Cap thought a long moment. “Yeah, before the ones not on guard go to sleep, have them saddle a horse and have it nearby.”
“You want them to shuck metal?” Johnny asked as the slashing rain hit.
Shucking metal was a term used to indicate the cowboy got rid of anything with metal in it in the hopes it might prevent a lightning strike. They were susceptible to strikes out on the open prairie mounted on a horse.
“Yeah, have them shuck it.” He sighed. “I hate to tell them to get rid of their guns, though.”
Mounting after Johnny m
oved off, Cap took his hat off and leaned his head back, letting the cold, stinging rain wash the dirt off his face.
His chest tightened as he circled the herd. As hard as they’d pushed them, the cows should be sleeping, but they weren’t. They were all up.
As he circled the herd, he stopped a moment to talk to Willie. He had no problem seeing the youngster’s face with the lightning flashes, but he would have been able to see the boy’s eyes in pitch darkness.
Reaching out, Cap caught his arm. He squeezed to emphasize his point. “If these cows take off, you get the hell out of the way. Let them run. You understand?”
“Yes—sir,” Willie said and continued his rounds.
Apprehension had sizzled through Cap before but now outright fear replaced it. His heart pounded as loud as the thunder as the night lit up, but this time not from the lightning.
Cap had only seen the phenomenon known as St. Elmo’s fire once until now.
Bluish white electrical charges lit up the tips of the cow’s horns, surging from one tip to the other as it spread from cow to cow.
He only had time to scream, “Stampede,” as thundering hooves blasted the night air.
Another scream, one cut off suddenly, sucked all the air out of Cap’s lungs.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Andy’s shot shattered the stillness of the morning, followed by the explosion of bird wings taking flight.
The bullet had hit Lloyd Stephens in the chest with a solid thump. He tottered with blood spreading across the front of his shirt, staring as if he couldn’t believe Andy would shoot him. Blood seeped out of the corners of his destroyed mouth.
When Andy fired, he shifted position and cocked the rifle, making sure he was out of line with Abbey, ready if he needed to shoot again.
With his focus on Stephens, Andy motioned for Abbey to move behind him.
She rose and scrambled around Stephens, making sure to stay well out of reach.
Stephens, somehow still standing, turned his head to follow her movements. He tried to speak, but only blood bubbles came out. He tottered again, and then like a cut-down tree, fell on his face.
