Trail Dust Page 12

  “What you find up th’ trail?” persisted the cook.

  “No cattle in sight, far’s I went,” answered the Kid. “Them range stockers won’t never bother us.”

  “Pete was tellin’ me how these here big prairie rattlers bulldog cattle—growed cattle,” said the cook tentatively.

  “Yeah? They’re mean critters,” said Johnny, waiting for a better cue. Coming from the south, he viewed the prairie rattlesnakes with a fair amount of contempt. He hauled a fresh blue shirt into sight and dove back under the cover.

  “Hoppy says they grow up to fifteen feet an’ travel three to th’ pair,” continued the cook, again scrutinizing the ground around the camp.

  “Shucks. I’d say that was a couple feet too long; but they’re damn dangerous, ’specially at night,” said Johnny’s muffled voice. “Bein’ so long, they stretch out over considerable ground. Their head will be on one side of you, an’ their tail on th’ other. That’s what makes ’em so dangerous at night, an’ why you never want to shoot toward th’ rattle. When you hear that, you want to watch th’ other way, where th’ business end is. An’ you want to watch damn close. See you later!”

  In one point, at least, Johnny had corroborated Pete: they were most dangerous at night. The cook scratched his head thoughtfully. This was a hell of a country for a white man. He knew who would sleep in the wagon from now on; and it wouldn’t be Pete.

  XVI

  The swimmers returned in a bunch, Red still wrangling about his missing shirt, and when they dismounted at the wagon Red climbed into it and began to shift its contents like a hen scratching gravel. Bag after bag was examined, and then, holding the last container in his hand, he leaped to the ground, strode to the cook, and thrust the bag under that pious person’s nose. Red had a chip on each shoulder.

  “This yourn?” he demanded ominously, shaking the bag.

  “Yeah; it shore is,” admitted the cook, having perfect faith in the contents of that bag.

  Red opened the bag, pulled out the missing red–and–white shirt and jammed it against the cook’s face.

  “Then how’d that shirt get into yore bag?” he demanded, his words clipped.

  The cook’s surprise was so apparent, so natural and unforced that it was very convincing, and the owner of the shirt let his gaze drift from face to face.

  “I’d like to know th’ answer to that, myself!” shouted the cook, in no way embarrassed or awed. The last time he had seen the damned shirt it had been in Pete’s bag; and, after Pete had rummaged around and left the wagon, the cook had again looked into his own bag, just in case Pete had put it in there. He turned accusing eyes on Johnny, the last man who had meddled with the war bags. “What you know about it, Kid?” he growled.

  “Me? Me?” inquired Johnny innocently; and then his face hardened. “Why, I’ll tell you what I know about it, cook: if you ain’t got th’ guts to stand up for yore own shirt–stealin’, don’t you try to saddle it onto me! That’s what I know about it!”

  “That so?” snapped the cook. “Th’ last time I saw that shirt a piece of it was stickin’ outa Pete’s bag!”

  Pete slowly turned to look at the disputants. He very ostentatiously sized up Red and then glanced with satisfaction down at his own huge chest girth. Then he waved a hamlike hand. It was almost a regal gesture.

  “Any time I steal a shirt it’ll shore be one that I can squeeze into,” he said. “I found it in my bag, though; an’ not none of it was stickin’ out. That means that nobody would know it was in there, ’less they looked, or put it there themself. How come you knowed it was in there, cook?”

  Cook sidestepped the direct question and then went on the offensive.

  “Then what made you put it into my bag?” he demanded. “You want to get me into trouble?”

  “I didn’t put it into yore bag that I know of,” placidly replied Pete. “But I’d just as soon get you into trouble as not, if you don’t put yore mind on yore job an’ get us somethin’ to eat right smart.”

  The cook growled something about shirts, swimming, and the lateness of the hour and turned back to his job.

  Red looked slowly from face to face, muttered something about damn–fool jokers, and strode back to the wagon, shirt in one hand and bag in the other. As he emerged from the canvas and stepped down from the doubletree he chanced to look off toward the trail.

  “Here comes th’ trail cutter,” he said and grinned. It was the first trail cutter he had ever taken a fancy to. “He shore missed somethin’ by not comin’ back last night.”

  Welcoming smiles greeted the newcomer as he stopped not far from the wagon, and the cook tried to drag a frown over his wide smile and failed; but if he could not frown he could be verbally abusive.

  “My ——!” he snorted. “Now we’ll be et outa house an’ home!”

  “You oughta be glad that any human bein’ would eat yore damn grub,” retorted the trail cutter, punching the cook playfully in the ribs as he passed the wagon. The cook kicked him gently in the seat of the pants and wiped his butcher knife on his own pants. The trail cutter looked the crowd over and addressed the boss.

  “Couldn’t get back here last night,” he said. “Hope I didn’t miss no ruckus.”

  Conversation became general, and during the course of it the trail cutter learned just what he had missed. His slight frown of disappointment slowly changed into an expression of mild eagerness.

  “Mebby they’ll make a play tonight, to get square,” he suggested. He showed his teeth in a smile. “You mebby got two gangs on yore tail now.”

  Hopalong pulled out a sack of tobacco and some papers.

  “Yeah,” he grunted thoughtfully, “but I don’t look for no trouble tonight. There was a gun fight down there last night. They rode right up past th’ wagon, judgin’ from th’ flashes. Somebody got hurt. If th’ raid went through all right, then Waggoner’s crowd will still be drivin’ th’ stolen animals. Th’ T Dot Circle outfit will be mighty busy. If they got any cayuses left, they’ll be usin’ ’em to round up their animals. If they ain’t got hosses they can’t bother us——Hey!” he exclaimed, suddenly. “By ——, we got hosses! If they’ve lost theirs they got to get others.” He looked shrewdly up at the trail cutter. “Mebby you did get back in time, at that.”

  The trail cutter laughed suddenly. It sounded like a bark. He dropped to his haunches beside the trail boss and dug up tobacco and papers. The cook grabbed the lid–lifting coffee pot, swore under his breath, and then waved both hands. The grub line formed magically and filed past the tailboard of the wagon. The trail boss, seated on the ground with his tin plate and tin cup, looked speculatively toward the bed ground. It would have been better to push the herd a mile or two farther on, away from the stream: it would begin the next day’s drive easier, with sweeter tempers, from a dry area. To do that now, besides disturbing the cattle, he would have to break camp, get the work horses from the cavvy—it wasn’t worth the trouble, so long as he wasn’t trying to gain even average mileage. He would meet trouble when it arose; but after tonight they would not bed down the herd so close to water. He glanced at Johnny, busily eating, and unconsciously nodded over the report that the Kid had brought to him at the swimming hole. Johnny had seen no cattle on his ride up the trail. There was nothing ahead to worry about, nothing to threaten them with a stampede. Ahead of them things were sweet and normal; behind them, hell might be popping. Huh!

  There was only one rider with the herd now, and Hopalong glanced from him to the cavvy and smiled as he saw it in motion and halfway to the wagon. Skinny drifted it up and held it while man after man, hastily getting to his feet, dropped his culinary utensils in the wreck pan and went about getting his night horse from the bunch. Lanky, well fed and cheerful, took Skinny’s place with the cavvy and drove it off again, while the day wrangler charged the tailboard and filled his plate generously. Two riders went off toward the herd to take it over on the first night shift and to send Billy in for his supper. Billy m
ade a race of it to camp and dropped down beside the wrangler, balancing a well–filled plate.

  “I didn’t see nobody relieve me when they shoulda,” he grunted between bites.

  “They all went swimmin’,” said the cook, volunteering the information with malicious pleasure and waiting for the fireworks.

  “Hell they did!” growled Billy and fell to eating again.

  The cook sighed with disappointment.

  Twilight developed swiftly, and the fire took on a depth of color which it had lacked but a few moments before. Billy and Skinny, a good job well done, rolled cigarettes and contemplated the economical blaze. The night was clear and without wind. Conversation was jerky. The two men who had the next shift knew that it would be foolish to turn in so early, and preferred to sit up until time for them to go out to the herd. The others were already beginning to think of their blankets. Riding, open air, and full stomachs conspire toward drowsiness. The cook’s fire was an Indian fire: its sticks radiated like the spokes of a wheel, and now someone pushed a few sticks farther in toward the center, and the little blaze slowly grew, lighting up the lean, tanned faces about it. On the range and on the trail, this was the precious moment.

  Hopalong suddenly cocked his head and arose. He moved toward the wagon until it stood between him and the revealing fire, giving him the tremendous advantage of invisibility, turning him into the potentiality of a masked battery. The hoofbeats were plainer now, and two more of the seated outfit raised their heads to listen. Then even the cook heard them and took his mind from sixteen–foot rattlesnakes. A slight frown formed on his face.

  “Why’n hell don’t they come in at meal time, before everythin’s put away?” he grumbled, his mind on the troubles of his trade.

  Johnny carelessly moved his right arm behind him, leaning back on it and using it as a prop. His gun belt lay on the ground back there, and his hand was touching walnut. Johnny was young, and he had imagination. Red glanced at him curiously, smiled gently, and let his gaze flick toward the wagon, somewhere back of which a very capable trail boss was standing alert in the darkness. Red tossed his cigarette butt into the fire and began to roll a new smoke. Johnny caught the meaning, flushed a little, but did not shift his position.

  Red lighted the cigarette and chuckled.

  “Hell, Kid: that feller’s got you covered right now,” he said.

  The trail cutter smiled with the others and waited with them for the oncoming rider to materialize. A bright gleam jiggled in the darkness, where the fitful firelight played for an instant upon a shining belt buckle or some other bit of bright metal. Then the light played upon gleaming chestnut as a horse pushed into sight and stopped. The rider sat quietly in the saddle, looking down upon the seated group.

  “Howdy,” he said. “This th’ Circle 4?”

  “Yeah,” lazily answered Red. “Light down an’ set.”

  The stranger’s eyes slowly passed from face to face, and he looked inquiringly at Red.

  “I don’t see th’ feller I’m lookin’ for,” he said mildly. “Yore boss,” he amended. “He was at my wagon a couple of days ago.”

  Red’s eyes glinted in the firelight, but he frowned at Johnny’s alert eagerness.

  “You from th’ T Dot Circle?” he asked coldly, his gaze coming to rest on the horseman.

  “No,” answered the horseman, slowly dismounting. He dropped the reins over the horse’s head and stopped at Red’s side. “I’m boss of th’ 3 TL,” he said, dropping down to squat on his toes.

  There was movement in the darkness on the far side of the campfire, and Hopalong slowly emerged into the faint, outer circle of light.

  “Here’s th’ boss now,” said Red.

  “Howdy,” said Hopalong, moving lazily forward.

  “Howdy,” replied the newcomer, looking up. He stood erect. “I reckoned I’d pay back yore visit to my wagon. My name’s Gibson.”

  “Mine’s Cassidy. Meet my boys.”

  Gibson nodded to each in turn and then sat down at Red’s side and crossed his legs.

  “Hell busted loose last night down our way,” he said, looking up at the Circle 4 trail boss.

  “That so?” asked Hopalong with interest.

  “Yeah,” replied Gibson. “Bunch of cattle thieves raided th’ T Dot Circle.”

  “I reckon this is a kinda mean part of th’ trail,” said Hopalong.

  “Reckon mebby it is,” agreed Gibson, pulling idly at a dead weed stem. “Seems like they wanted hosses. They only stampeded th’ cattle for a blind. They got all but two head of hosses. That put th’ outfit afoot, except for th’ two riders that was out with th’ herd.”

  Red nodded wisely.

  “They figgered by drivin’ off th’ cavvy they could pick up th’ cattle ’most any time. Losin’ their cavvy shore puts a drive outfit in a right mean hole.”

  Gibson nodded and looked around the circle. It was plain to be seen that he was worried.

  “I lent th’ T Dot Circle some of my hosses,” he said. “My boys jumped in, rounded up their herd, an’ two of ’em stayed with it. I began to figger about throwin’ back onto th’ trail, an’ that’s what I’ve done. Th’ sooner I get outa this part of th’ country, th’ better I’ll like it. I pushed my herd, after a late start, till it got too dark for anybody to locate it. We stepped ’em right along, let me tell you.”

  Hopalong nodded his understanding.

  “You’ve done th’ best you can accordin’ to what you know,” he said. “But you didn’t have to drive tonight. Waggoner’s crowd are too busy takin’ care of what they run off; besides, they won’t bother you: it’s us they’re after. If I didn’t have so many head on my hands, I’d shore help them coyotes find us!”

  “It’s you they’re after!” exclaimed Gibson in surprise. “Last night it shore looked like they was after th’ T Dot Circle!”

  Hopalong shook his head and explained the situation as briefly as he could. At the conclusion he smiled at his wondering visitor.

  “That’s th’ way she lays,” he said. “They reckoned that they was raidin’ us. You keep right on a–comin’, though. We’re a considerable distance ahead of you now an’ figger to keep outa yore way.”

  Gibson squirmed and cleared his throat a little apologetically.

  “Uh–huh,” he said thoughtfully. “Then you aim to keep movin’ right along?”

  “Shore,” answered Hopalong, nodding. “We’ll keep outa yore way.” He reached for tobacco and papers. “We’re a full day ahead of you now.”

  Gibson squirmed again.

  “Well, hardly that,” he said uneasily. “We’re on th’ trail an’ figgerin’ to keep on goin’.” He pulled at another weed stem. “What I come up to see you about was to tell you that we’re goin’ on past you, seem’ that you’ve throwed well off th’ trail.” He broke the stem and tossed it into the fire. “We throwed th’ T Dot Circle cattle in with our own herd. Th’ bigger th’ herd, th’ less men it takes to handle ’em, in proportion. We couldn’t hardly do nothin’ else, with them fellers havin’ no cavvy.”

  Hopalong’s face grew hard, and an angry light flared up in his eyes.

  “You did, huh?” he growled, looking steadily at his visitor.

  “Yeah,” answered Gibson uneasily. “We figgered that if we drove all night we’d be far enough ahead of you by mornin’ to open up a good gap; an’ if we pushed ’em extry hard we could keep it open.”

  “If you do that th’ cattle will be so plumb tired out, after that, that they’ll drag along unless you lay over to rest ’em up,” said Hopalong angrily. “What’ll happen to th’ gap then?”

  “You might lay over tomorrow,” suggested Gibson.

  “Yeah, I might; but I won’t,” replied Hopalong. “Look here, Gibson: if it was just yore herd I might do it; but you’ve gone an’ got hooked up with them T Dot Circle coyotes, an’ I wouldn’t move a finger to do a good turn for them fellers. What happened, down south there, was their own fault. You listen, a
n’ I’ll tell you why it is. I don’t reckon they had anythin’ to say about it.”

  It did not take long to tell the story, and at its conclusion the visitor slowly stood up.

  “Don’t see how I can blame you for th’ way you feel,” he admitted, with a wry smile. “It was Halliday’s idear that we bunch our herds an’ keep on goin’. Halliday is th’ T Dot Circle boss.”

  “Yeah,” replied Hopalong, grinning. “It was his idear that we play rear guard for him while they skinned along th’ trail an’ got outa their trouble. An’, also, beat us to Bulltown before we could lower beef prices.”

  Gibson faced the speaker, his lids narrowing a little.

  “But you told both of us that yore herd is sold, right now!”

  “Shore I did. I told th’ truth, too. We are sold, right now. You believed me, but Halliday didn’t. I wouldn’t mind lettin’ you go past me, if yore herd was separate; but not nothin’ wearin’ th’ T Dot Circle brand is goin’ to make any dust for us to eat. You can tell Halliday to put that in his pipe an’ smoke it; an’ if he don’t smoke, then shore as hell he can chew it!”

  “No,” said Gibson slowly and thoughtfully; “he didn’t believe you, an’ I did; but I shore didn’t have no real reason to.”

  He nodded to the men around the fire and to the trail boss and stepped to his horse. By this time his herd and the T Dot Circle cattle should be almost even with the Circle 4 camp, clicking off the miles in the darkness; and by the time this outfit could get into its stride, he would be ahead of them; and once ahead of them, he would stay there, come hell or high water. He raised his hand in a parting salute and swung his horse. In a few minutes the sounds of its hoofs could no longer be heard.

  In the camp he had just quitted there was swift and purposeful movement. Men were on their feet, rolling up bedding and tossing it into the wagon. Others were moving toward the night horses, ready to join the herd and start it on the way again. The cook was picking up odds and ends, making the wagon ready for the team when it came in. Hopalong was still squatting on the ground, gazing steadily at the incandescent embers of the fire. The cook hastened toward him, water bucket in hand. Hopalong stirred suddenly and checked the cook’s swing.