by Brett Waring
“Be best if we get ’em over tonight,” Nash said. “If the rains are heavy, that arroyo might fill up. We’d never make it then. It’s deep enough as it is.”
He broke off as he saw Largo Dunn studying him closely.
“You don’t talk like the usual trail hand, Clay. You got education?”
“Can read and write. And I do a lot of readin’ when I got time. I’ve never had any kind of college education if that’s what you mean.”
“Yeah. Knowed of a lot of men got their education out of books. Never went in for ’em much myself. ’Ceptin’ history. Like to read about the old pioneers and how they settled this country, fought the Injuns an’ so on. Fascinatin’.”
“Sure is. Not a lot about, though, is there?”
“If you know where to look. Spanish record their history in more detail than we do. Plenty of their books about if a man can read the language.”
“Can you?”
“Some. Stumble a lot but I usually get the general drift of things.”
“Kind of heavy goin’ though.”
Dunn grunted and Nash knew that was an end to the conversation: there were more important things to be done.
It was, as Dunn had predicted, a hazardous operation getting the herd across the flooded arroyo. The rain hit before they’d really got started.
There was wild activity as the cowboys rode round the herd, bunching them as tightly as possible and running them towards the narrowest section of the arroyo. But it turned out to be impractical to cross there, because of the narrow walls. The water was too deep and too swift. They lost four steers as the bank gave way under the front line and were lucky not to lose McPhee, too, as his horse floundered on the soft edge and spilled him into the flow. The tough cowpoke managed to grab at a brush jutting from the bank and Johnny Marks, the wrangler, got a rope to him pronto and dragged him back up onto solid land ...
The crossing was made downstream and by the time they reached the best place, the rain was really hammering down and half-blinding them as they hazed the bawling, bucking steers into the coffee-colored water. Ropes were out and the men swam their mounts alongside the steers, clinging tightly to saddle horns, and lending a hand where it was needed.
They lost a man just before sundown when the last couple of hundred cows were making the crossing. He was a quiet hombre named Dave who someone said came from Virginia. He couldn’t swim and he’d merely clung to his horse’s mane while the animal made the crossing. But somehow he’d lost his grip when a steer had been carried into his horse.
No one had even noticed until he’d been carried a hundred yards downstream and then a tough hombre name of Brandon had seen him just as he disappeared beneath the muddy flood. They searched well after dark but didn’t find his body till next morning, draped around a rock jutting out of the frothing flood. His back was broken but likely he’d drowned long before that had happened.
They buried Dave on the bank, well back from the reach of any flood waters, and then did a tally on the herd. Incredibly, they had lost only twenty-one head. There were cuts and bruises and no one had dry clothes, but Poison Pete and the Kid kept the hot coffee and grub coming and by noon the next day the rain had stopped and the clouds began to disperse ...
By the time they sighted the trail town a day later, the sun was shining brilliantly and the grass flats that stretched ahead were emerald green and lush. Largo Dunn said the town was called Chicimec.
“Queer name,” Nash said.
“Called after the tribe that formed the basis of the Aztec Civilization down in Mexico,” Dunn told him, casually. “Seems they came from the north and someone put it down to this region. Dunno how true it is but the British Museum sent out a team here a long time ago to look for relics. Found some old pottery, but never heard if it meant anythin’ to ’em. Spaniards were supposed to’ve destroyed the original town that was here, lookin’ for Aztec treasure.”
Nash smiled thinly. “Thought you said you din’ much bother with books.”
“Only them that interest me. Anyways, you fellers’ll find Chicimec a rip-roarin’ trail town now. Sheriff’s a pard of mine and we have a sort of ... arrangement ... when I bring a herd through. Wide open town for as long as we stay. It’ll cost you all two-and-a-half bucks outta your pay.”
“What the hell for?” a trail hand named Whittaker demanded.
“Told you. The sheriff an’ me have an arrangement. He’ll find business to keep him out of town long as we’re there. But it costs twenty bucks a day. ’Course, if you don’t want to see him right, he’ll stay and enforce the law. And I’m here to tell you rannies that Chicimec ain’t no fun at all when that happens.”
Some of the men grumbled but it was finally agreed. Each man would kick in two-and-a-half dollars for the Chicimec sheriff to quit town for a couple of days.
“We’ll move on day after tomorrow,” Dunn said, wise in the ways of trail crews, knowing that two days were just long enough for them to unwind without making them useless for work afterwards. One day wasn’t enough—it was just a tantalizing sample of what could be had in the way of ‘fun’. Three days was usually one day too many. The pay advances had run out by then, the men were hung-over and disconsolate and good for nothing for a few days afterwards. Two days were just right in Dunn’s experience ...
The crew spruced up and, after drawing straws to see who was unlucky enough to get herd duty, hit town with a whoop-and-a-holler that lifted the roofs—and had some of the more staid citizens running for cover.
But Chicimec was essentially a trail town that depended on the free-spending cowboys that rode up and down the old cattle trails. For years, the town had been by-passed but not by trail bosses like Largo Dunn.
Dunn was looked on as something of a hero in Chicimec for he’d given the town a new lease of life by keeping it on his trail drives to the north to Freedom.
Nash hit the saloons and cat houses with the others and when there was a brawl between the cowmen and some of the townsmen, Nash got into the thick of it and swung right alongside the trail crew. He’d long been accepted by Dunn’s men but the way he acquitted himself in that brawl that overflowed into the main street from the saloon, made him more popular than ever ...
Nursing their wounds, the cowmen found another saloon and staggered in, singing bawdy trail ditties—with McPhee yelling for the barman to set ’em up.
It was after the first round that they found they’d used up their pay advances and things looked like getting disappointingly quiet until Pecos Smith, swaying unsteadily, dug into his hip pocket and brought out a double eagle gold piece. He grinned owlishly as he held it up for all to see and then slapped it down on the bar.
“Lemme know when that’s drunk out, barkeep,” he slurred.
As the ’keep went about filling glasses, Nash picked up the gold piece, making out he was drunker than he actually was.
“Hell almighty, Pecos, where you get this much dinero? You can’t have much pay due in Freedom if you ...”
A hand reached out and grabbed the double eagle. Nash frowned as he turned and was surprised to see the grinning face of young Johnny Marks, the horse wrangler.
“Hey, Pecos, you promised you wouldn’t spend my lucky piece.”
Nash looked blankly at the wrangler and he turned to Pecos who was blinking and obviously at a loss. Marks clapped an arm around Pecos’ thick shoulders.
“Hey, man. You remember you won this off me in a poker game before we joined Largo in Cougar Bluffs. You promised you wouldn’t spend it till we got to Freedom an’ I could give you another twenty bucks instead.”
“I did?” Pecos blinked.
Marks punched him lightly in the midriff and chuckled. “Hell, I’ll say you did. I’m mighty partial to this here double eagle.”
“Been lucky for you has it?” Nash asked taking the coin. He turned the gold piece over and over between his fingers. “Don’t look like anythin’ special.”
The wrangler snatch
ed it back. “It is to me. You put it away, Pecos.”
“Listen, you hombres’ve gotta pay for these drinks,” the barman snapped, having been a witness to the exchange.
“That’s okay,” Marks said, digging into his pockets and peeling a couple of grubby bills off a small roll. “I got enough.”
“Not enough to buy back your lucky piece?” Nash asked indicating the money the wrangler held.
“No. They’re all one-dollar bills.”
Nash said no more. He turned and leaned on the bar, sipping his drink. Marks led Pecos away to a rear table where the drunken prankster flopped into a chair. He looked about ready to pass out.
The Wells Fargo man had shown interest in the double eagle because there had been twenty of them in the strong box that had been taken from the Spanish Springs stage by the three road agents. They’d belonged to a storekeeper who’d been sending them to his married daughter in a town down the line as a gift for her new baby. They were all current dates, and the man had chosen them deliberately so that his daughter might keep one of the coins for the baby when it grew up, and give him a coin that bore his birth year.
Nash knew Johnny Marks had been wrangling horses along the cattle trails for years, and thought it was highly unlikely that the man would have kept such a coin all that time.
It wasn’t evidence, of course, but it was enough to make him decide to stay on with the herd. He’d been about to quit at Chicimec, for he couldn’t get any kind of a line on the men he sought and had just about decided that they weren’t with Largo Dunn’s crew.
Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure. It was worth sticking around for a little longer, he figured.
Largo Dunn had stayed with the herd that first night when his crew had hit town. It was his way. It was that kind of attention that would keep Largo Dunn getting contracts to haze steers up the old trails to beef markets long after other trail bosses had gone out of business.
But the second night, Dunn aimed to savor some of the delights of the saloons and cat houses for himself. Once again straws were drawn for night hawk duty and Nash cursed when he got one of the short ones. Brandon got the other.
“Too bad, amigo,” laughed Pecos Smith, still showing bruises and cuts from his brawling and whoring. “If you get lonely, maybe you can pick out a cuddly heifer.”
Nash smiled with the others. “Just you watch you ain’t all wore out from last night. You old fellers need a week or so to recover I hear.”
Pecos chuckled and, with Largo Dunn leading, the riders headed for town. The Kid was left to do his washing up.
Nash mounted and was about to ride out to the herd when he saw Brandon sitting his horse at the edge of the camp. He had thought the hard case was already out riding round the herd. Then Nash was further surprised to see his pard, McPhee, easing his mount up alongside.
“What the hell, Mac?” Nash said, frowning. “Thought you just rode out for town with the rest of the bunch.”
McPhee, a beefy man with a massive head and no neck to speak of, gave a tight grin as he walked his mount slowly forward. “Well, I got to thinkin’ about my pard here. Brandon an’ me we do everythin’ together. Have done for years. I din’ feel easy headin’ into town when I knew he’d be here ridin’ night hawk, likely bored to death.” The man held up a big hand. “No offence, Clay, but you wouldn’t be much company. Brand don’t take all that well to you, see?”
Nash flicked his gaze to the silent Brandon. “Mutual,” he said.
McPhee’s grin widened. “Sure. So why don’t you ride on into Chicimec an’ have yourself a time with your pards. Pecos, an’ Marks an’ whoever. I’ll stay with Brand. We got lots to talk about.”
Clay Nash kept his face carefully blank, wondering what the two were up to. No one—no one—volunteered for night hawk or camp duty when a trail town was just a few miles away across the plains. If McPhee and Brandon had wanted to stay together, more likely they would have tried bullying one of the other trail hands to take Brandon’s place so they could both hit town and whoop it up.
“Well, I ain’t never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Mac,” Nash said with a pleased grin. “I didn’t ask for another pay advance ’cause I figured I’d be stuck here. Guess mebbe I can borrow a buck from someone ...”
“Here,” McPhee said, riding his mount slowly forward and holding out his hand. “I got my advance. Five bucks; you owe it me, all right?”
Nash took the money and nodded, staring levelly into the man’s eyes. He knew for sure something was wrong. There was no reason for McPhee to make this type of friendly gesture.
He yelled his thanks and spurred away into the night with a wild whoop of excitement.
McPhee and Brandon sat their horses, listening to the sounds of the mount’s galloping hoofs fading into the darkness. The Kid stared at them blankly as he scrubbed up the blackened pots in the tub of greasy water. Then the hard cases slowly turned their mounts and rode out towards the herd ...
When he figured he was out of earshot of the camp, Clay Nash slowed his mount and ran it off the trail into the fringing brush. He sat the blowing animal for a few minutes and scrubbed a hand around his jaw, wondering about McPhee and Brandon.
They were two men he’d had in mind all along as possibly being mean enough to be road agents. They were both tough, wore their guns like they knew how to use them, and had argued with most of the crew, coming to blows once or twice. Nash had made neither enemies nor friends of the pair.
That was why he’d been so surprised when McPhee had made his offer.
The horse was breathing quietly as he moved slowly back towards the herd. He had a pretty good idea of what they were planning ...
He kept to the grass at the edge of the trail, skirted the camp site where he could see the Kid still struggling to clean the cooking pots, and made his way out to the flats where the steers were bedded down.
Or where they were supposed to be bedded down ...
He heard them making lowing sounds as he approached on foot through the darkness. Then he heard the clash of horns, the restless stamping of hoofs, and the rubbing of moving hides.
The herd was on its feet instead of resting.
Nash paused by a rock that came just above his head, listening. He could hear low voices and cursing, the swift, short bursts of sound that came from riding mounts back and forth, controlling restless cattle. His keen ears also caught the whistling sound of a rope noose being thrown, followed swiftly by the grunt and choked bellow of protest from the roped animal.
Nash figured there were at least four horsemen out there.
It looked like McPhee and Brandon had met some friends and were cutting out a bunch of steers from the main herd. The newcomers would likely drive them away in the night and McPhee and Brandon would report all well come morning. Largo Dunn, having no reason to do a tally, would get the herd moving and the rustled steers wouldn’t be missed until the next tally was made—and that mightn’t be until they rolled into the holding grounds of Freedom ...
He wondered how many times the pair had pulled that kind of thing with other trail herds? Maybe they’d fool Largo and maybe not, but Nash knew he had to put a stop to the rustling right then.
He put his Colt back in its holster and unsheathed his rifle from the saddle scabbard, gently levering a cartridge into the breech.
Maybe, he thought, he should slip back to the camp and get the Kid to ride into Chicimec to warn Largo Dunn ... No, no time for that. The hombres were working fast and seemed to be already moving out with the bunch of steers McPhee and Brandon had cut out of the main herd ...
Nash mounted and put the reins between his teeth, holding his rifle in one hand and his Colt with the other. He figured someone would start shooting, but maybe he could stop it: for once a gun went off, the nervous steers would break in stampede and they might even sweep on into the town ...
He could see the rustlers. Four of them, two of which would be McPhee and Brandon. They would help the o
thers get the steers some distance away from the main herd, then ride back and resume their normal duties.
But not if Nash could help it.
He used his knees to work his mount around on the pads of thick grass, aiming to intercept the rustlers before they reached the edge of the flats where the herd was being held.
It was risky and he knew he might be spotted as he crossed against the distant but faint glow of the lights from Chicimec.
And he was.
Suddenly, he heard a startled voice call out.
“Who the hell’s that?”
“Where?” demanded McPhee—and Nash heard the click as a gun hammer came back to full cock.
“Here, Mac,” he called. “Didn’t figure you were friendly enough to lend me money and stand in as nighthawk for me. Reckoned there had to be somethin’ more to it. And seems I was right.”
There was silence as Nash continued to move his mount in closer, getting around so that the bulk of the hills were behind him, keeping him from being silhouetted against the town’s lights.
“Could be a big mistake—on your part,” Brandon said.
“Just ride on into town like you were s’posed to, Clay.”
“Uh huh. Can’t let you steal Largo’s steers.”
“No skin off your nose,” McPhee snapped.
“Mebbe I just don’t like rustlers.”
“Then—that’s—too—damn—bad,” Brandon said deliberately and coldly.
“Don’t shoot, Brand,” McPhee yelled as his pard apparently raised his gun. “You’ll stampede ’em.”
It was too late.
The gun roared and the flash stabbed the darkness but Nash was already leaping his mount to the side. He jammed his heels into the flanks and rode forward with a wild yell—his six-gun and rifle hammering.
He knew the main herd were up and bawling and likely running but he couldn’t do anything about it. Now if he could only try to stop the rustlers getting away with their bunch of prime beeves.
He spun the Winchester around the trigger guard and lever, using the gun’s weight to cycle the action and jack a fresh cartridge into the breech. Coming out of the darkness that way, he had a lot of firepower, although the others had twice as many guns.
