Trail Dust

  Trail Dust

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  Trail Dust

  Clarence E. Mulford

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  * * *

  Foreword

  Red Connors uncrossed his legs, picked his hat from the floor, and arose. He was grinning reminiscently, as well he might: to Red, any episode concerning the earlier life and activities of his friend Hopalong Cassidy was something set apart in value and sentiment from all other things; and Red knew more about Hopalong’s earlier days than any other man on the ranch. He studied me for an instant, nodded cheerfully, and strode slowly toward the door. Then he stopped and turned.

  “Well, that’s th’ story,” he said, and the smile grew. He hitched up his belts instinctively, and his blue eyes twinkled in his freckled face. “They grew ’em tough, down in that country, in that day,” he added and then swung through the doorway.

  The story he had just told me was one that I do not wish to forget in any of its details, and to that end I shall here write it down. I had heard fragments of it before, and many allusions to it, and I had gathered the idea that whenever action happened it had happened swiftly. Now Red had welded it into its complete form and continuity. The time to do a thing is to do it now, and now it shall be done. Here’s the story.

  I

  They had obtained the cattle from the ranches within a day’s ride of the old Bar 20. Most of them were in their own brand, but to fill a herd of that size and specifications it had been necessary to call on their neighbors. They had Double Arrow, C 80, and O Bar O animals with their own. It was not a large herd as trail herds went, but in the old days of the Longhorn it is doubtful if any thousand animals, the equal of these, had trodden that trail. Buck Peters, who was foreman, had been critical to the point of arousing derisive profanity among his friends; but, being Buck Peters, he had not swerved an inch: and now the trail crew were drifting the finest and most uniform herd of four–year–olds that any of them had ever seen. They had an extra dozen for replacements, they had a good chuck wagon and cook, and they had a choice and hand–picked cavvy: eight horses to a man, and each remuda had trained night horses, a big–bellied animal for river work, and tough, swift mounts for the trail. Their road brand was Circle 4. The herd had passed the inspector, and they were well on their way.

  The straw boss, riding on left point, saw a small dust cloud far up the trail. He turned in the saddle, waved his arm, and one of the flankers pushed up to his side. While he waited for his friend to join him, he looked back at the strung–out cattle, grazing as they moved. Perhaps he had let them graze too long; perhaps he should have pushed them until he learned about the next water. His gaze passed on and rested on the inconsequential drag, wreathed by dust. For a thousand–head herd, it was remarkably small. And then the flank rider joined him and stopped at his side.

  “Take over th’ point, Lanky,” said Hopalong, a grin trying to displace the slight frown. He was feeling pretty good. His task was half over, for the last creek they had left behind them had been the halfway point. Up to now everything had gone well. “I’m goin’ up to meet th’ Kid.”

  Lanky Smith nodded, his eyes on the little dust cloud up the trail.

  “I reckon there’ll be plenty of water,” he replied. “You want we should tighten ’em up an’ make ’em step?”

  “No,” grunted the straw boss. “Be time enough for that if I signal.”

  Lanky watched his boss and friend ride away and nodded mechanically. It always was a good thing to be sure, especially when it had to do with a herd. It was a twenty–mile drive from the last water to the creek, and the weather was not too hot. It was a thirty–mile drive from the creek to the next water. If the creek was wet enough, the thirty–mile drive did not matter very much; but if the creek should be dry, it meant fifty miles without drinking the cattle. These were steers, hardy and full–grown; not cows, with calves. Nevertheless fifty miles without water was a good thing to know about in advance.

  Hopalong pushed on at a lope, his eyes on the nearing dust cloud. What wind there was was keeping even with the rider, and the thick dust hid him. It would be a smother of dust when the cattle reached that place.

  Johnny Nelson finally appeared in a rift, extended both arms out from his shoulders, and dropped them swiftly. Hopalong turned in the saddle and raised his big hat. Back with the herd, both point riders passed the signal along. The spread–out herd compacted into a line four to six animals wide and moved with faster stride. The dust suddenly doubled, climbing higher near the tail end and making the drag rider swear. Farther back a lazy cook tightened the reins and cracked his whip over the team. The chuck wagon lurched and rumbled, swinging wide on the windward side, and went past the herd at some distance from it. The cavvy, loafing along and grazing beyond the course of the chuck wagon, showed more activity. The day wrangler sent it ahead briskly. If there was any water at all in the creek, the horses must have it. Everything, should the cattle go thirsty, would depend upon horseflesh. They might have to cover several miles to the cattle’s one.

  Johnny pulled up. He was hardly out of his teens, but he had worked and was working with good cowmen. He was a good cowman himself.

  “Little puddle in th’ crick bed, about eighty rods south, around th’ bend,” he shouted. “It’s dry every place else.”

  “Enough for th’ cavvy?” yelled the trail boss.

  “Yeah, if they don’t puddle it,” answered Johnny. He glanced at the distant horse herd. “Hadn’t I better ride over an’ tell Skinny?”

  “Yes, an’ stay with him. We’ll see you at th’ crick,” answered the boss, his gaze on the chuck wagon. “Pass th’ news on to th’ cook, so he can get there first an’ fill up his barrel. You tell him if he riles that water, I’ll bust his neck!”

  “I’ll bust it for you, before you get there,” replied Johnny, with a grin, and he was on his way to help Skinny Thompson with the cavvy.

  Hopalong was not very much worried. A fifty–mile dry drive, with cattle like these, was hardly more than an incident in a trail driver’s life. Why, he could remember the time when … Might be just as well not to start remembering things like that. And while he determined not to remember them, he was recalling every harrowing incident of that awful drive. He shook his head savagely. Should he go on to the little pool and mount guard over it, or should he stay with the cattle? That was a damn–fool idea. There was no reason to go on to the pool—it wouldn’t evaporate, or blow up in the next few hours, and he could not stop it, anyhow. A trail boss should stay with the cattle. He sent h
is horse into a lope and rode back toward the herd. When he reached it, he chose the right side. The first rider he met was Red Connors, rifleman par excellence, now riding right point.

  “Enough water for th’ cavvy?” asked Red anxiously.

  “Yeah.”

  Red grinned. That was one of the reasons why Red was loved by his friends. He might lack initiative, but he did what he was told to do, to the very last word, and almost anything served him as an excuse for a grin.

  “Shucks!” he snorted, the freckles threatening to run together. “What’s fifty miles, to cattle like these?”

  “Fifty pounds to th’ head, mebby!” snapped Hopalong, thinking in terms of beef. The total was impressive.

  “Shucks!” replied Red, the grin growing, as he glanced at the quickly moving herd. “They can lose fifty pounds a head an’ not show it.” He sobered swiftly. “Cook aimin’ to fill his barrel before th’ cavvy gits into it?”

  Hopalong laughed. With a thousand head of cattle on their hands, and a fifty–mile dry drive before them, Red was worrying about the quality of the drinking water, about muddy coffee! Hopalong waved his hand and rode on, and with the same gesture replied to the flankers’ questions. He swung in behind the drag, where Billy Williams was cursing footsore cattle, the dust, and the need for speed. When Billy had a reason to grouch he was as near happy as he ever could be.

  “Why th’ hell I allus git th’ drag, every trip——” began Billy, pugnaciously.

  “Go up on th’ left flank, an’ swap places with Pete,” ordered his boss. “We’ll eat dust for you for a while. An’ you don’t git th’ drag every trip.”

  “Ah, I didn’t mean nothin’!” growled Billy.

  “I know it; but I do,” said Hopalong. “We’re comin’ to some blame’ fluffy soil. I don’t want th’ drag to git too far behind. Send Pete back here an’ git some clean air in yore lungs. I’ll eat some of yore dust.”

  “Be damned if I do!” retorted Billy. “Lookit that fool O Bar O critter: he’s blind in one eye an’ allus edgin’ off.”

  Hopalong turned the animal back and grunted.

  “So would you edge off, if horns was threatenin’ you on yore blind side. You git up there on th’ flank an’ send Pete back here to me.”

  “Hell with Pete. I owe him three dollars, an’ he’s allus bringin’ it up, th’ last couple of years.” His mind as well as his body seemed to be fogged with dust, for only now did he give any thought to the condition of the important creek ahead. “Did th’ Kid find any water?”

  “Enough for th’ cook an’ th’ cavvy,” answered Hopalong. “You go on up an’ swap with Pete. Me an’ him’ll take over th’ drag for a little while, an’ then you an’ him can handle it. I don’t want it to get too far behind.”

  “All right,” replied Billy. Shortage of water had changed his attitude. He disappeared in the dust, and soon thereafter Pete pushed through it. He nodded to his friend and boss and gave his attention to the footsore cattle on his own side. Hoofs thudded, horns clicked, the dust arose like a blanket, steadily growing thicker. The sun blazed down, and time intervals seemed twice as long. Then Hopalong dropped back, crossed the trail, and loped forward along the left flank. The cattle were moving rapidly, steadily, like veterans. Fifty miles would not be too dangerous if no time were wasted. When they finally got to water, he’d let them rest up for a day or two. They must be prime when they reached the shipping pens and were turned over to the new owners.

  Billy nodded in reply to the gesture and stopped his horse, letting the stream of cattle flow past him. Hopalong took his place for a while and then, riding forward, took up his old place on left point and sent Lanky back to handle the flank position.

  Little rises thrust up, drew near, and receded into the soaring dust blanket. Sage and brush rolled endlessly past. They reached and crossed the ridge which divided the watersheds of the two streams, and poured down the gentle slope. The cavvy should have watered by now. If he let the herd into what was left of the water it would be hard to get going again, sullen and stubborn with the taste of a few drops, without receiving any real benefit from the depleted puddle. Steady progress was the proper thing, with not a minute wasted. If the wind held as it was, there would be no water scent to make them ugly.

  The twin lines of brush marking the stream bed came into sight. Hopalong could see the cavvy grazing on the farther slope, and the chuck wagon was below the horse herd and not moving. The trail boss swore under his breath: they all knew that there would be no stop at the dried–up creek! This was not like his outfit: something was wrong.

  A group of riders pushed up into sight out of the dried watercourse. They rode steadily toward the oncoming cattle, and their rifles lay across their saddle horns. Hopalong turned, waved Lanky ahead to take over the point, and saw Red repeat the order on his own side of the herd.

  Hopalong pushed on, Red crossing the herd and converging to join him. The flankers were riding as far forward as they dared. A distant rider streaked down the slope where the cavvy grazed, and then another as the cook left his wagon to play day wrangler and to stay with the horses. Why should Johnny and Skinny do a thing like that? Hopalong did not know, but it made him keenly alert. He knew his men.

  The oncoming group of strangers slowed and spread out, and two of them faced around to watch the progress of the two wranglers. Hopalong stopped his horse, and Red did likewise. The two groups were perhaps fifty yards apart.

  “Howdy,” called the trail boss in even tones.

  The leader of the strangers nodded shortly, curtly.

  “Reckon we’ll have to cut yore herd, pardner,” he said, slowly.

  “Got yore papers?” asked Hopalong evenly.

  “Shore have. You want to see ’em?”

  “No.”

  “No? All right. Might as well throw th’ herd together here,” said the stranger. He started to wave to his companions, but the trail boss stopped him.

  “You better pull off to one side of th’ trail, or you’ll mebby get trompled flat,” said Hopalong coldly. “This herd’s in a hurry, an’ it’s not stoppin’.”

  “What?” asked the other in simulated surprise. “You resistin’ us cuttin’ this herd?”

  “Any cuttin’ will be done after we reach water!” snapped the trail boss. “We’re plumb in th’ middle of a fifty–mile dry drive, an’ we ain’t stoppin’. After we reach water I’ll take a look at yore papers. We ain’t wastin’ time, with th’ cattle gettin’ thirstier every minute; an’ we ain’t chousin’ ’em up while they’re movin’ sweet an’ steady.”

  “Hell you ain’t!” snapped the stranger, touching a paper which stuck out of a pocket.

  “You show me that paper, an’ I’ll make you eat it,” said Hopalong. “Up to right now I don’t know that you’ve got any authority to stop an’ cut a herd; an’ I ain’t goin’ to find that out until after these cattle have watered. You can play that on yore gran’father’s fiddle: it’s mebby dance music.”

  “I’ve got th’ legal right to cut this herd wherever I find it,” retorted the stranger. “I’m cuttin’ it here an’ now.”

  “Judge Colt says that if you do any cuttin’, it’ll be yore fingernails!” growled the trail boss.

  “I’m tellin’ you to bunch that herd, so we can cut it!” The stranger’s arm went up, and a rigid forefinger indicated a steer on the edge of the herd. “There’s a brand I got on my list. I claim that critter! If there’s one, there’ll be more. We cut this herd here an’ now!”

  “There’s near a hundred C 80s in this herd,” retorted Hopalong. “You figger on takin’ ’em all?”

  “I’ll take every critter you got that carries a brand that’s on my list.”

  “Yo’re a modest —— ——,” said Hopalong grimly. “I told you it was mebby dance music.”

  “We got fiddles of our own!” retorted the stranger.

  “An’ you mebby got our road brand on yore list,” said Hopalong, insultingly and om
inously. “Then you can claim th’ whole damn herd.”

  “You know I ain’t!”

  “Then cut yore drag,” growled the trail boss. “Every C 80 here has got our road brand on its hide. I got a paper, too, it’s signed by th’ state cattle inspector, an’ it’s got th’ road brand, as well as th’ other marks. Get outa th’ way: yo’re clutterin’ up th’ trail.”

  The cattle, well trail broke, poured along the faintly marked trail without guidance. All humans had deserted it. Even the drag was on its own, for Pete and Billy had deserted their posts to swell the group behind their foreman, to stand shoulder to shoulder with their friends. Johnny and Skinny had not kept on riding. Their horses stood with empty saddles. The sage was thick over there and kept its secret well.

  The leader of the strangers glared into the angry faces confronting him and then cocked an ear at something one of his own men whispered. His eyes glanced at the two riderless horses and then over the thick clumps of sage. He figured that the distance was under four hundred yards. The old service Sharps ate up such an interval with gusto. Fifty–caliber slugs were nothing to argue with. Two hidden riflemen, lying prone—huh!

  “We’re all gettin’ too riled up,” he said with a grim smile. “I know how you feel about wastin’ time right now. We’ll cut this herd on Bender’s Crick, where there’s plenty of water an’ grass.”

  “You will,” admitted Hopalong, “after I see yore papers; but papers or no papers, you don’t cut out nothin’ with our road brand on its hide.”

  “We’ll cut out what our papers call for, an’ don’t you forget it!”

  “I ain’t likely to forget it!”

  The stranger turned in the saddle and waved his companions back. The herd kept on pouring past, with the point men taking up their proper positions; but the flankers all seemed to prefer the trouble side. Be easy enough to shape up the cattle, if they needed it, a little farther on. Damn all trail cutters!