Trail Dust Page 19

  “You lend us th’ shovels,” he said, with a grin. “My boys ain’t never worked up a sweat or done a honest day’s work with their backs in it. If there’s enough of that bridge left for us to find, we’ll make it good enough to get cattle acrost it.”

  “Won’t be no trouble findin’ it, not with that V–shaped fence pointin’ it out,” said Halliday, with a laugh. “It’s up above th’ old crossin’. Seems to me like it would be a good idear for every trail outfit to stop there long enough to throw a little more dirt onto it. You fix it up good enough to cross yore wagon, an’ little bunches of cattle, an’ me an’ Gibson’ll make it wider. By Gawd, that’s one trail trouble we can cure!”

  Hopalong nodded and looked at Skinny.

  “You foller these boys back to their camps, Skinny, an’ get them shovels,” he said and again looked at the visitors. “Light down an’ have some coffee.”

  “No, reckon not,” replied Halliday, picking up the reins. “After that storm th’ other night, I find I’m fidgety unless I’m close to my herd. Well, good–night an’ good luck, boys.”

  “Good luck,” came the answer in a chorus.

  Hopalong stepped over to Halliday’s silent companion, clapped his left hand on Gibson’s leg and held out the other. They shook hands silently, gripping hard. In another moment the two visitors were riding back to their respective camps.

  Hopalong looked after them for perhaps a minute and then turned to smile at his seated friends as Skinny got up to go to his horse and ride off to get the shovels.

  “Well, come hell or high water—we’ve shore had th’ hell, an’ that bridge of Slaughter’s will mebby clean up th’ high water for us—we’re on our way ag’in at th’ first crack of dawn: an’ we’re goin’ through!”

  He was right, for at the first crack of dawn there sounded again the old, familiar clack, shuffle, clack of thousands of hoofs and horns: but this time the dust did not blanket the herd, because there was no dust.

  “But if they’re goin’ to Canady, then I’m a–goin’ too:

  Me an’ my roll with th’ whole damn’ crew!”

  Pete looked across the heaving backs of the plodding cattle and frowned at the singer.

  “All swelled up like a poisoned coyote,” he growled and then resumed his scrutiny of the herd, looking for the pestiferous bummer. A gladsome thought suddenly popped into his mind: perhaps the damned bummer had been one of the animals killed in the stampede. He grinned happily and faced forward again.

  XXIV

  The Circle 4 herd was stepping along on its way, and the gap between it and the last herd up the trail, the nearest herd in front of them, was wide enough to suit even the most pessimistic trail driver. Behind it were two known herds, respectively one and two days distant. The delivery point was coming steadily nearer, where the responsibilities of the drive crew would come to an end; and, so far as the riders knew, the way was open and clear to the shipping pens at the end of track. True enough, Big Muddy Creek was drawing closer with every passing mile, but Big Muddy at last had joined the ranks of the unimportant, thanks to John Slaughter and his three trail crews.

  Hopalong looked back along the herd and smiled with satisfaction. These thousand steers were trail veterans now, and they were moving like trail veterans, plodding steadily onward. They were not grazing on the move: they would be grazed later, when thrown off the trail at the end of the day’s drive. Right now they were opening up a promised trail gap, a gap promised to the bosses of the two following herds. Hopalong swung around in the saddle and spoke to his companion, an amused but wistful smile on his lean, tanned face.

  “You know, Red,” he said with a chuckle, “we’ve all, at one time or another, swore that we was on our last trail drive; but th’ way these critters are movin’, damn if I wouldn’t like to drive ’em clean up to th’ Blackfoot Agency!”

  “Ye–ah,” replied Red, thoughtfully rubbing the stubble on his face. “Yeah: or even acrost th’ line an’ into Canady!” Then he shook his head slowly. “Not much chance to drive no animals like these to no Injun agency: they don’t feed Injuns on beef like this.”

  “No,” admitted Hopalong, an ironic smile spreading over his face. “No,” he repeated, as various details of agency cattle and agency deliveries paraded through his mind. Other details, too, presented themselves and made him grimace. “But cattle like these are sometimes paid for, for Injun deliveries.”

  “Shore,” replied Red, nodding and grinning; “an’ mebby weighed an’ counted twice, to boot.”

  “Injuns like their beef on th’ hoof,” commented Hopalong. “You ever see Injuns handle agency beef when it’s turned over to ’em?” he asked, the mental picture making him spit to clear the taste from his mouth.

  “No, I ain’t; but I’ve shore heard all about it.”

  They rode on in silence for a few moments, and then the trail boss straightened up in the saddle and came back to matters of the immediate present.

  “Reckon I’ll be on my way up to take a look at Big Muddy,” he said. “Th’ wagon ought to reach there about th’ time I do. If Slaughter’s bridge needs fixin’, then me an’ th’ cook will have a good start at it before th’ herd gets there. You water ’em at th’ next creek an’ then keep on comin’, ’less I ride back to stop you. I don’t want no thirsty cattle near that damn mud hole. If they ever get into that there’ll be hell to pay, with th’ devil keepin’ cases. We’ll take it in our stride. If it ain’t ready to cross over by th’ time th’ herd gets near it, we’ll bed down well this side of it, an’ water ’em at th’ next creek tomorrow.”

  “Mebby I better hold ’em on th’ next creek till I hear from you,” said Red thoughtfully. “It’s only a two–hour drive from there on to Big Muddy, if I remember right. I figger th’ two creeks come together not very far to th’ east.”

  “Reckon that’s th’ better play,” agreed Hopalong and rode forward at a brisk pace.

  Red nodded and watched his boss and friend ride away. He glanced across the herd at Lanky Smith, over on left point, and then looked back along his own flank and grinned cheerfully at Johnny Nelson, the rider nearest to him. The herd kept on, shoulders and hips rising and falling, heads and tails swaying gently, the clacking of their hoofs on the hard, rain–swept ground interspersed with the occasional clicking of horns on horns. The sun was shining, the air was clear of dust, and the day was cool. When Red faced about again, he was humming a plaintive melody with disgraceful words, well pleased with himself and with the job in hand. When they left the next creek they would shape the herd into a thinner and longer line, so it would feed easier, bunch after bunch, onto Slaughter’s bridge.

  Hopalong saw the top of the dirty wagon cover trying its best to shine in the sun. Its variegated patches were very noticeable and accounted for the final use of various trouser legs, the seats to which had been worn out. In those days in the southern cattle country no one threw away anything which could be used. The grip of poverty was still on the land, although it was slowly lessening, thanks to the movement of its four–legged wealth, a movement greatly due to Joe McCoy.

  The wagon came into sight from the top down and revealed the cook draped lazily on the board seat. The horses were still in harness, drowsing on each side of the pole. Three shovels lay on the ground near the front wheel, one of them bright from recent use. Beyond the wagon was the sheen of water, with slough grass and rushes rising above it. Crossing it was a dirty, yellow–brown streak, here and there pushing up above the surface. Almost in the middle of the streak was a wide break, but there were no ripples to indicate that a current was flowing through it. Just this side of the water’s edge were two lines of poles and piles of dried brush, starting out from each edge of the rusty streak and diverging into a huge V. This was John Slaughter’s guiding fence, to funnel cattle onto his causeway.

  Hopalong pulled up at the wagon, his gaze flicking from the lazy cook to the harnessed horses and back again.

  “Been here long?
” he asked.

  The cook stirred, tossed away the bedraggled butt of a cigarette, and shook his head, seemingly with an effort.

  “Half–hour, mebby,” he answered, yawning widely.

  “You looked at th’ bridge?”

  “No–o,” grunted the cook and reached for tobacco sack and papers.

  Hopalong’s face reddened under its coats of tan, but he said nothing: a cook was a cook, one of nature’s little jokes on trail bosses. He glanced down at the shovels and gently raised his eyebrows.

  “You throw them shovels out of th’ wagon all by yoreself?” he asked in mild surprise.

  “Huh?” said the cook. “Oh, shore,” he answered, looking curious.

  The trail boss pressed his knees against his mount and rode on to the apex of the pointing V and stopped at the end of the causeway. The horse stretched its neck for more leather, obtained it, and sucked noisily at the water, letting most of it spill out again. The animal plowed it several times with his velvety nose and then raised his head with a toss. Then he obeyed the knee pressure and stepped onto the causeway. At the edge of the break he stopped abruptly. Hopalong was about to put him into it when he remembered the soft, sticky treachery which had made this sluggish creek famous and infamous along the cattle trail.

  He swung the roan around and rode slowly back to the bank. The hoofs of the horse did not cut in deeply, even where water lay across the causeway: Slaughter had done a good job. Hopalong rode on to the wagon, where he stopped and dismounted. The cook, watching him languidly, leaned the other shoulder blade against a wagon bow and recrossed his legs.

  “You got any choice of shovels?” the trail boss asked the cook as he pulled off his boots.

  “Huh?” ejaculated the cook, his wandering thoughts cut short.

  “Any one of them shovels a pet of yourn?”

  “Hell, no! Why?”

  “Then pull off yore boots an’ socks, if you got any on; roll up yore pants, grab one of th’ shovels, an’ get ready to spit on yore hands,” said the trail boss gently. “That storm plumb washed out near a dozen feet of John’s bridge. Th’ break ain’t deep, but it looks damn oozy. We can have it all filled up by th’ time th’ herd gets here.”

  “Me an’ you?” asked the cook with a rising voice. He was no longer languid.

  “Me an’ you, an’ anybody else you can find around. We got an extry shovel.”

  “Hell, there ain’t nobody near here but us!” retorted the cook, staring at the shovels; “but th’ boys will be here in a few hours,” he suggested hopefully. “Th’ hull outfit.”

  “If I wasn’t dead shore they’d get here, an’ th’ cattle with ’em, I wouldn’t bother to fix th’ bridge,” explained Hopalong.

  The cook studied the calm face of his boss and then looked at the shovels, and from the shovels to the wide slough, and then down at his boots. His gaze lifted from his boots to his boss, and what he saw far back in the cold, steady eyes of that person was almost like an impact. He sighed deeply and raised one foot, bending slowly to meet it. Under his breath he said things which appear in print only in modern novels. Feet bare at last, and trousers rolled up, he climbed down from the wagon seat, slowly picked up a shovel, and reluctantly followed his boss.

  Armfuls of Slaughter’s dry–brush fence, weighted down by shovelfuls of earth, layer upon layer, finally filled in the treacherous gap. The trail boss, shovel in hand, crossed over the fill and went on to the opposite bank. There were wide, shallow places where he had to wade. The surface of the causeway, however, was firm enough. He stepped out on the farther bank, grinned happily, and then recrossed the bridge.

  “She’ll do,” he said.

  The cook heaved a sigh of relief and turned toward the wagon, dragging the shovel behind him. The two men, tired and covered with perspiration, gratefully dropped the shovels and let their feet and legs dry in the sun. The cook was looking southward, his thoughts on the nearing herd. He felt that it would not go on far after the slough was crossed, and he wanted to go about preparing camp and have his fire ready to light. He also wanted to get away from the slough: there was no telling what might happen in the next few hours.

  “Reckon me an’ you better get this wagon acrost before th’ herd gets here?” he asked as casually as he could.

  The trail boss looked at him.

  “No,” answered Hopalong, slowly shaking his head. “I want th’ boys here with their ropes before we try that,” he said—and then explained himself: “In case th’ wagon slides off.”

  The cook paused for a moment and then drew on the second sock and reached for the second boot. He saw Hopalong’s gaze fixed on the bare heel sticking out of the sock and shook his head.

  “Ain’t had no time to darn ’em,” he said and then answered the words of his boss. “Yeah,” he said, grunting as he forced the foot home. “I’ll get out my saddle an’ be all ready.”

  Hopalong glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

  “Where you aim to put it?” he asked curiously.

  “Put what?

  “Yore saddle.”

  “Why, on a hoss. Where’n hell you s’pose?”

  “Well, I figgered mebby you was goin’ to cinch it onto th’ wagon seat,” replied the trail boss, “because that’s where you’ll be settin’.”

  “But she may slide off, you said!” exclaimed the startled cook.

  “There’s considerable less chance of her doin’ that if there’s a good man drivin’,” replied the boss. “Considerable,” he repeated.

  “But, hell! I can’t swim!”

  “You won’t have to,” explained Hopalong, beginning to enjoy himself. “If she slides, just jump an’ stick up yore arm. When it comes up somebody’ll drop their rope over it an’ haul you out.”

  “By —— ——, I hired out to cook!” said the culinary artist of the Circle 4 trail herd.

  “You also hired out to drive this wagon all th’ way to Bulltown—an’ back ag’in, if I want you to,” retorted Hopalong. “Every foot of th’ way.”

  “Well, I’ve done it so far, ain’t I?”

  “Except that time you got dead drunk, an’ I had to drive you an’ th’ wagon to camp from Waggoner’s.”

  The cook frowned at this unkind reminder of a jocund moment with the fruitful corn, turned his head and looked at the watery expanse of the slough. It now looked dark and mysterious. Then he turned about and slowly straightened.

  “My back’s near busted,” he complained.

  “Yeah? Well, just think of th’ rest yore busiest end has had.”

  The cook’s attention was now on the watery gaps in the causeway, a causeway in which he now took a keener interest.

  “But you said you found her good an’ solid all th’ way,” he said.

  “Solid enough,” replied the trail boss, “but kinda narrer in a couple of places; an’, of course, they had to be where she’s under water. In case you can’t see where to drive, I’ll go over first an’ drop a shovel on th’ other bank for you to aim at. Kinda front sight, like. Two of th’ boys’ll ride ahead of th’ team, with their ropes hitched onto th’ wagon. When you start, aim at th’ shovel, travel fast, an’ keep a–goin’. We’ll empty th’ wagon first, though: ain’t no use riskin’ gettin’ our grub an’ stuff all wet. If th’ herd balks, you go over first.”

  “No, there ain’t no use of gettin’ th’ stuff wet,” agreed the cook slowly and again looked out over the placid water.

  “I got to go back to th’ herd an’ keep it comin’,” said Hopalong, glancing southward. “By th’ time it gets here, that water’ll be settled an’ mebby give you a chance to see th’ footin’.”

  “Yeah, mebby,” growled the cook without enthusiasm. He was pondering over treacherous bogs, quicksands, and various river bottoms he had known, and suddenly he looked at his companion. Drop a rope over his arm, huh, and yank him out! “I once saw a cow pulled out of a quicksand, an’ shore as hell she left one front laig plumb behind!” />
  “Yeah,” agreed Hopalong, nodding; “but this hole ain’t quicksand. It’s just—just mud. An’ you ain’t a cow. Anyhow, you won’t hit bottom, I reckon; but if yo’re scared of losin’ a front laig,” he said, keeping his face straight only by an effort, “I’ll tell th’ boys to keep their ropes coiled.”

  “Hell!” barked the cook. “I’d ruther lose a laig or arm than git drownded!”

  Hopalong nodded gravely.

  “So would I,” he agreed and then glanced up at the sun to get the time of day. “After we get you acrost, you make camp about two miles up th’ trail and east of it. Th’ herd may go over as slick as bull butter, or it may take us till tomorrow night to get it acrost; but if th’ cattle are balky, th’ wagon goes over as soon as th’ boys get here, right side up or bottom side up; an’ you go with it, drivin’ th’ team.”

  The cook lifted his hat and rubbed the red mark made by the sweatband.

  “Anybody that goes with a trail herd is just a plain damn fool,” he growled. “This shore as hell is my last trip, an’ that’s flat!”

  Hopalong controlled his facial muscles and stared gloomily at the placid water, and then he nodded his head very slowly and sighed.

  “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Mebby it is. They generally run in threes.”

  The cook turned halfway around to look at the speaker.

  “What you mean?” he demanded sharply.

  Hopalong muttered something about the first one being buried by Gibson, got to his feet and stepped toward his horse. He swung into the saddle and gripped his knees. As the horse shot forward, its rider turned.

  Get everythin’ out of th’ wagon an’ be all ready to go! he shouted and faced around to meet the whistling wind.

  The frowning cook stood with feet spread far apart and with arms akimbo.

  “Yessir!” he exclaimed, talking to himself. “Any man that goes up th’ trail with cattle is just a plain damn fool!” He looked at the creek again, scowled at the causeway, and slowly turned toward the wagon, to begin the task of emptying it.