Trail Dust Page 20

  XXV

  Hopalong reached the herd as it watered at the creek next to Big Muddy on the south and found that the trail cutter again had become one of the outfit. They exchanged grins, and the trail boss pulled up for a moment.

  “I’m beginnin’ to figger you’ve forgot all about cuttin’ this herd,” he said. “If you reckon you’ll hurt our feelin’s by lookin’ it over, yo’re figgerin’ wrong.”

  “I know that, Cassidy; but seem’ how much I’ve been with it, an’ how well I know it, I reckon I could forget cuttin’ it without much harm bein’ done,” replied the cutter. “I’ll take a good look at ’em when they string out to head over Slaughter’s bridge. I saw ’em all while they was bein’ cut out an’ rounded up after th’ stampede; an’ one look will be enough. Red tells me you was up lookin’ at th’ bridge. Last time I was there it was all right, but I reckon that storm washed out some of it.”

  “Yeah, it did; but me an’ th’ cook fixed it up good enough,” said the trail boss, and then, catching Red’s eye, waved his big hat toward the north and Big Muddy; and a few moments later the cattle reluctantly left the creek and began their forward march again. Two hours later the chuck wagon came into sight, and then the V–shaped fence which was to funnel the herd onto the causeway.

  At that moment an apparition emerged from under the canvas cover of the wagon. It was the cook, as naked as the day he was born. Piles of impedimenta were on the ground near the wagon. He seated himself on the wagon seat and reached for the reins; and then looked in surprise at Hopalong’s impatient and violent gesture. His surprise increased as the gestures increased in vehemence, and he finally got it into his head that his presence was not wanted. All uncertainty was banished when the trail cutter raced toward him, shouting profane instructions.

  “Get back outa sight, you —— —— fool!” yelled the cutter. “One good look at a thing like you, an’ there’s no tellin’ how long it’ll take to get th’ herd acrost! They got their fool minds on walkin’ right along, an’ we don’t want nothin’ to get their minds off that. Get back outa sight!”

  “But th’ wagon was to cross over first!” protested the cook, not without indignation.

  “Th’ wagon’ll go over first, after we find that th’ cattle won’t! Get back outa sight!”

  The cook glanced at the distant trail boss, and that person’s hat was still violently signaling. The dictates of modesty were slowly observed, though not without a muttered protest, and the wagon cover soon kept its secret.

  Hopalong raised his hand, and the herd was slowed a little while a dozen of the leaders were gently urged forward at a little better speed, the rest of the herd following slowly. The proper psychology of the thing was to let the herd take the bridge in its stride, if it would; to take it as a matter of course and without stopping; without giving it time to discover that anything the least bit unusual was before it. If it stopped, the chances of it readily crossing would be less.

  While the leading cattle moved forward, Skinny and two other riders swiftly drove the cavvy in before them and started to feed it onto the bridge. The horses crossed readily enough, and this phase of the operation was timed so nicely that the last bunch of them was hardly on the causeway before the selected steers reached it. These steers were the natural leaders of the herd and had been the leaders since the first few days of the drive. They were well trail–broken and dependable as steers can be and would be likely to cross over more readily than any of the others; and if they crossed, the herd would follow.

  It was an anxious moment. If the steers balked, it would mean balking by the whole herd, and hours might be lost. Hopalong flashed a quick glance at the wagon, found it innocent of added attractions, and then gave his whole attention to the subtle and gentle urging onward of this little group of steers. The animals stepped onto the bridge, hesitated, looked to the right and to the left, and broke into a nervous run, heading straight for the farther side. That was the big moment, and almost before the remainder of the herd knew what it was all about, it was sent forward at a brisk pace and in a thin stream across Slaughter’s bridge, breaking into a lumbering run as it passed the middle. Two animals were forced off into the creek, but were allowed to swim around until the last of the herd was safely over; and then two riders pushed in after them and herded them away from the treacherous banks and back toward the firmer footing of the causeway. In a few moments both cattle and horses had clambered up the side of the bridge and were moving across it to solid ground. Big Muddy was no longer a threat.

  Hopalong sighed and looked at the trail cutter, who had been too busy in scrutinizing the passing animals to notice much of anything else.

  “Well!” said the trail boss, exhaling gustily. His relief was manifest.

  “You bet! Slick as a greasy fryin’ pan,” replied the trail cutter, now taking time to smile. “No strays in yore herd, yo’re out of my territory, yo’re acrost Big Muddy, an’ there’s nothin’ ahead of you but th’ saloons of Bulltown: th’ saloons, th’ gamblin’ joints, th’ ladies south of th’ tracks, an’ a hard–drinkin’, gun–fightin’ bunch of bad hombres. I’m leavin’ you here an’ wishin’ you luck.”

  “You figger I’ll need lots of luck, huh?”

  “W–e–l–l, you’ll need some. It depends a lot on how well you hold yore liquor; an’ how close you can keep yore boys to camp. There’s a hull lot of folks in Bulltown that make their livin’ off’n strangers; an’ most of ’em make a purty fair livin’. Th’ gamblers do right well.”

  “Steve Hardy still marshal?” asked Hopalong.

  “No. He was shot from behind a wagon. Scatter gun blowed him all apart. Th’ gamblers run th’ town. It’s their turn now. Three Spot Bolton is marshal. He carries a short–barreled gun stuck behind his belt buckle. He’s left–handed, an’ th’ buttons of his coat are on th’ other side.” The trail cutter pushed up his hat and then held out his hand. “Well, Cassidy, I’m right glad I’ve met you. That goes for yore whole outfit. Hope I see you ag’in next year.”

  “Why don’t you spend th’ night at th’ wagon?” asked the trail boss. “Th’ day’s purty far gone now. Hate to say good–bye to you yet awhile.” He smiled. “Them two herds behind us won’t be up here till tomorrow or th’ next day. Drop yore saddle off at th’ wagon tonight.”

  “All right; reckon I will.”

  “That’s good talk. Man, did you see ’em cross that bridge?”

  “I shore did,” chuckled the trail cutter, “outa th’ corner of my eye. An’ I shore saw one of them range–stockin’ herds raise merry hell right here. They wasn’t handled right, an’ they was wild, anyhow; an’ by th’ time th’ riders got through chousin’ ’em, they balked strong, an’ it took two hull days to get ’em acrost; an’ then blame’ near a hundred of ’em was crowded off th’ bridge. She was shore excitin’.”

  “Well, we was lucky,” responded Hopalong and looked at the wagon. “Now we got to get cook acrost.”

  “I cut most of my herds up here or just below,” said the trail cutter, glancing from the wagon to the causeway, “an’ I know that bridge. There’s two bad spots for wagons. One side of th’ bridge is softer than th’ other. It’s th’ east side, an’ both bad places is right where she’s narrowest. You got to come fast an’ keep a–comin’.”

  “That’s about how I figgered it,” replied the trail boss. “Cook’s half scared to death. That’s why th’ damn fool undressed. He figgers he’ll mebby have to be drug out.”

  “An’ mebby he figgers right,” said the trail cutter. “I know this bridge. If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll drive yore wagon over.”

  “That’s right nice of you,” replied Hopalong. “If I’d found cook usin’ one of them shovels when I rode up, a few hours back, I might say yes to that—or drive it myself; but now he’s shore goin’ through with th’ job. He hired out to drive that wagon, an’ he’s goin’ to do it if I’m man enough to make him.”

  They rode slowly back o
ver the causeway, Hopalong turning in the saddle for another look at the herd. It was moving on toward the bed ground up the trail, placidly plodding along. The drag rider, suddenly remembering his instructions, swung around and rode rapidly back toward the bridge, to throw his rope on the wagon, alongside his boss, and help yank the vehicle across the tricky causeway.

  “Here comes Billy,” said Hopalong, facing around again. “He’ll put his rope onto her, alongside mine, an’ we’ll show th’ cook th’ way.”

  “I know this bridge,” repeated the trail cutter. “Billy can go back to th’ drag, or you can have him foller along behind th’ wagon with his rope hand ready in case of accident. Me an’ you’ll jerk her over.”

  Hopalong nodded his acquiescence and drew up at the wagon, where he laughed aloud.

  Modesty blushed as the cook emerged from under the tarpaulin. He was bony, he was freckled, and he badly needed a bath. His face was strained with an expression of grave anxiety, and he looked at his boss accusingly.

  “You still figger she oughta be drove over?” he demanded. “Seems to me that a couple of good riders at th’ bits of this team would do a hell of a lot better job.”

  “It mebby does look that way to you,” replied Hopalong. “You get yoreself set on that seat an’ pick up th’ reins,” he ordered as Billy rode up. “Billy, you foller along behind in case she slips off an’ cook has to jump,” he said, winking at the grinning rider. “He says he’d rather lose an arm than get drownded; but I don’t reckon you’ll have to pull as hard as that.”

  “Hell,” said Billy, gravely; “he’ll be usin’ his arms to keep him afloat, an’ I won’t be able to rope ’em. I’ll drop th’ rope over his head: it ain’t so likely to slip off, that way, an’ let him go down ag’in.”

  “There ain’t nothin’ th’ matter with you, Billy,” retorted the cook, “except you ain’t got no brains!”

  “All right, cook,” ordered the boss. “Climb onto that seat an’ start her rollin’.”

  The trail cutter and the boss made their ropes fast to the running gear as the team started, and rode out ahead, their ropes drawing taut. When they reached the bridge they were moving fast, the wagon bounding and rattling along behind them. Billy grinned, sat where he was, and calmly rolled a cigarette. Any rescuing that might be needed could wait until after he had enjoyed his smoke. Anyhow, he had noticed that the cook had lashed the wagon box to the running gear, and he figured that the box would keep both the gear and the cook afloat for a few minutes. He was worrying more about the harnessed horses than he was about the cook, if the truth were known. Harnessed horses can drown each other.

  Billy saw the wagon strike the first submerged place and send the spray flying. It tipped sharply toward the east, but quickly righted itself under the pull of four horses and rolled over the next stretch of exposed bridge on all four wheels. Then it splashed into the second low place, careened wildly as the rear wheels slid sideways, sent a sheet of water into the air, seemed to hang on a hair, and then, rolling along with the right rear wheel off the bank, was yanked back squarely onto the causeway and rolled along without further mishap. A few moments later its wheels were grinding on the gravelly soil of the farther bank, and another cook had been spared to aid the cause of dyspepsia. Billy grinned, pressed his knees against his horse, and rode calmly over the causeway. He reached the wagon as it came to a stop and pulled up beside it.

  The naked cook dropped the reins and stepped to the ground as the two leading horsemen loosed their ropes and began to coil them.

  “Gawd!” he said, and wiped the sweat from his face. “For a minute back there I felt a hull lot better for knowin’ that Billy was right behind me an’ ready with his rope!”

  Billy took a long drag on the cigarette and tossed the butt away.

  “I was behind you, all right,” he said without being explicit; “an’ I was all ready to be a hero about th’ third time yore head come up; but you tricked me. Well, now, let’s get back an’ start gettin’ that stuff over. Don’t see why it was ever took outa th’ wagon in th’ first place. Just makes that much more work.”

  The cook glanced across the creek at the little pile which represented all the clothing he had on earth.

  “That’s what I said,” he remarked. “Bring me my clothes first trip, will you, Billy?”

  The wagon repacked, Hopalong sent it on its way and watched it roll along parallel with the trail and to the right of it, on its way to make the night’s camp. The trail boss felt so good over the way Big Muddy had been crossed that he was going to call it a day and graze the herd early. He had kept his word with the two following trail outfits, was within striking distance of town, and the delivery date was no longer a matter to worry about. The drive was practically ended.

  Billy took up his position with the drag, and Hopalong and the trail cutter pushed forward to gain the right point. As the two overtook Johnny, the trail boss looked at his youthful friend and laughed outright. Johnny had been one of the two riders who had gone into the creek after the luckless steers.

  “Kid,” said Hopalong with a laugh, “you an’ Pete better go on to camp an’ get into dry clothes. You’ll have more time now than you will later.”

  “I’m wearin’ th’ only clothes I got, except shirts, an’ so is Pete.”

  “You better go on, dry yore pants an’ boots as good as you can. I’ll take over yore trick.”

  “How long before we throw off th’ trail?” asked Johnny.

  “About an hour. We’re stoppin’ early. Might as well let th’ cattle feed up th’ last few days.”

  “That’ll be time enough to get dry,” replied Johnny. “Anyhow, my boots won’t be dry till mornin’. I ain’t no wetter now than I was th’ night of th’ storm, an’ neither is Pete.”

  “Well, all right; it’s yore funeral; but as soon as th’ herd stops, you an’ Pete go in to th’ fire.”

  “All right,” replied Johnny. He moved the toes of both feet and felt the water squish up between them. He grinned and held out a hand. “Gimme th’ makin’s an’ a match,” he said, and the grin grew as tobacco and papers were passed over to him. He leaned over, struck the match on Hopalong’s saddle, blew out a lungful of smoke, and waved his hand.

  The trail boss and his companion pushed on and joined Red up at the point. The herd stepped right along, minute after minute. It seemed less than an hour when the wagon came into sight, well off to the east of the trail, and the smoke of the cook’s fire seemed to beckon them. The herd was headed off the highway and drifted on toward the bed ground.

  The cook was busy when Hopalong and the trail cutter rode in to the wagon, and the latter rode on to the fire to see if he could lend a hand. The fire was half a dozen paces from the wagon, but the trail cutter rode the distance in preference to walking it. The cook looked up and glimpsed two riders coming swiftly from the herd.

  “What they ridin’ in for so early? They know damn well they won’t get nothin’ to eat till we all eat!”

  “They’re comin’ in to dry their clothes,” explained the trail cutter. “What can I do to help you?”

  “You can get outa my way,” replied the cook and grinned.

  Johnny and Pete dismounted at the wagon, stripped off their wet saddles, briskly rubbed the backs of their horses, and then strode toward the fire. They were laughing and chaffing each other, and they kept it up while they got out of their wet clothes. The trail boss, digging around in the wagon, emerged with the war bags belonging to the wet pair and dropped them on the ground near the fire.

  “Huh!” laughed the cook, eyeing his two friends. “My Gawd, Pete: you got muscles on you like a steam en–jine.”

  “Never knowed steam en–jines had muscles,” replied Pete. “What do you know about steam en–jines? You never saw one.”

  “Well, no: I didn’t; but I saw pitchures of ’em. Saw ’em in Harper’s Magazine.” The cook’s face brightened suddenly. “But I’m shore goin’ to see some, right soon.�
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  Johnny slid into a dry shirt and then, picking up his gun belt, drew the weapon out of the wet holster, pushed out the cartridges, and placed them on his hat to keep the greasy bullets from picking up sand. As he straightened up to go to the wagon, he found that Hopalong had anticipated his needs, and he took the screwdriver and rag from Hopalong’s hand and went to work on the gun.

  Talking was general. Pete took the rag and screwdriver in turn and began cleaning his own gun as Johnny went over to shift the position of his clothing before the fire. The Kid had the gun in his hand, the base pin and cylinder still lying on the hat beside the cartridges, and as he returned from the fire he playfully stuck the harmless weapon against Hopalong’s stomach and ordered the boss to put up his hands.

  Hopalong grinned and obeyed and then, yielding to a sudden coltishness, he swung his left hand down and out, across his stomach and out past his side. It knocked the gun aside and closed over the weapon. The hammer clicked, but too late to have done him any harm if the gun had been loaded.

  Johnny laughed, but there was a strange, thoughtful look in his eyes.

  “Yo’re quick as hell, Hoppy,” he said. “You beat me to it. I’d–a missed you by a foot. See if you can do it ag’in.”

  “What’s th’ use?” laughed Hopalong, making a playful pass at the Kid’s head. “You wouldn’t be so slow, next time. I’d know better than to try that ag’in you.” He was moving toward his horse as he spoke, and he kept on going.

  “I was just as quick as I know how to be,” called Johnny. “You beat my trigger finger, fair an’ square.”

  Hopalong waved a hand behind him, swung into the saddle, and rode off toward the herd.

  “Seems like you mighta shifted my clothes, too, while you was there,” growled Pete, “’stead of foolin’ with that damn gun.”

  “All right, Pete: I’ll shift ’em anyhow,” replied the Kid, and he turned and walked slowly back to the fire, shaking his head as he went. He shifted Pete’s clothes without thinking about them and slowly and thoughtfully returned to his hat.