Trail Dust Read online

  The guardian riders loafed in their saddles, content to loaf for more reasons than the ordinary one: loafing along in the saddle meant peace, that all was going well—and in this interlude, all was going well. How long it would continue to go well, no man knew, but all were hopeful.

  Today the herd had been allowed to feed well before being thrown on the trail, and was now marking off the miles at a slow but regular beat; in mid–afternoon it would again be thrown off the trail to feed well before bedding down for the night. The cattle were being driven easy, to hold the weight where it was; and as they drew nearer to the shipping pens the driving would not be driving at all, but a drifting forward as the cattle grazed.

  The straw boss slouched in his saddle at left point, comfortably away from the blanket of dust rising slowly above the moving animals. To his left, at a considerable distance, moved the cavvy, half a hundred hand–picked horses. The chuck wagon had passed them already and was running gear down on the trail ahead. The boss was idly glancing at bushes and sage clumps along his side of the wide and dusty highway, in his mind the thought that he might see a pair of boots sticking out of some cover—a pair of boots with a dead man’s feet in them. The thought was not fantastic.

  Far up the trail there appeared a smudge of dust. Hopalong Cassidy sat a little more erect in his saddle, his gaze fixed steadily upon this telltale. Such a cloud of dust had ushered in all the recent troubles. A dark spot developed in the middle of the little cloud as it drew steadily nearer. He saw the approaching rider swing out to pass the chuck wagon; but he did not pass it: he swung in toward it and stopped. After a moment he came on again. One man, riding alone. Hopalong smiled: the stranger had gained nothing from his words with the cook. When the cook was sober he kept a tight mouth; when he was not sober, he——

  Hopalong turned in the saddle, raised an arm twice, and pushed ahead of the herd as Lanky Smith moved up to take the vacated place at the point. The flankers behind Lanky spread out to cover his regular position. This trail crew worked with precision and dispatch. On the right side of the herd there was likewise a forward movement all along the line as Johnny Nelson pushed up to take over Red Connors’s right point job in case Red should feel impelled to leave it.

  “What you crowdin’ me for, Kid?” asked Red, curiously. There was the suggestion of a smile around his lips.

  “I ain’t crowdin’ you, Red,” said the Kid. He felt for tobacco and papers. “You might want to ride on ahead.”

  The two riders were watching the nearing stranger; and their trail boss loping along to meet him.

  Red slowly shook his head.

  “He’s only one, an’ Hoppy ain’t needin’ no man’s help when th’ odds are even—an’ lots of times when they’re right lopsided.”

  Johnny’s eyes gleamed with appreciation, and he laughed in his throat. Then he looked accusingly at his companion.

  “Yeah,” he admitted; “but th’ next time Hoppy takes any war party away from this outfit, I’ll be with it. You ain’t hoggin’ everythin’.”

  “You got a razor?” asked Red, holding back his laughter.

  “No. What’s a razor got to do with it?” demanded Johnny with quick suspicion.

  “Anybody that goes with Hoppy on one of his war parties should be growed up,” explained Red and ducked barely in time.

  Johnny laughed and then sobered as he watched the two riders well up the trail.

  “Wonder who he is an’ what he wants?”

  “I figger he’s Sittin Bull, an’ he wants a drink of liquor.”

  “You go to hell,” growled the Kid and stopped his horse to let his place with the cattle come up to him.

  Up on the trail Hopalong slowed to a walk. He caught the glint of the sun on the stranger’s nickel–plated star and smiled thinly. From what he had recently experienced it might now be a habit along this trail for men to steal other men’s authority—even commit murder to steal it.

  The stranger slowed and stopped, both of his hands in sight and on the pommel of the saddle.

  “Howdy, friend,” he said, nodding.

  “Howdy,” grunted the trail boss without warmth.

  “Anybody cut yore herd yet?” asked the stranger.

  “No,” grunted the trail boss, his eyes glinting.

  “Anybody try to cut it?” persisted the stranger, his interest unconcealed.

  Hopalong regarded the questioner fixedly and coldly.

  “Yes,” he growled, his Irish ancestors urging war.

  “Thought mebby they might,” placidly admitted the stranger. “I’ve been busy sheriffin’ up in th’ north part of my county, an’ just got back,” he explained. “I’m lookin’ for a trail cutter.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you’d been with us, some days back, you’da seen him,” said the trail boss, his gaze unwavering.

  “You reckon you remember what he looks like?”

  “Yeah; I’ll know him when I see him again.”

  “An’ th’ fellers that was with him?” persisted the sheriff, in no way embarrassed by the direct gaze.

  Hopalong ignored this question, and instead of answering it, asked one of his own:

  “Where’re yore deppeties?”

  “Plumb tired out. I left ’em tryin’ to make up on some lost sleep. Why?”

  “Yore trail cutter had some friends with him,” explained the trail boss.

  “Reckon so,” admitted the sheriff, smiling again. “I was kinda figgerin’ on whittlin’ ’em down to my own size.”

  A warm smile flashed across the face of the trail boss. This was the kind of talk he could appreciate. The sheriff looked like he might be able to do a good job of whittling—a mighty good job.

  “You was goin’ after that bunch alone?” he asked.

  “I draw down my pay for sheriffin’,” replied the officer, his smile growing. “An awful lot of my time is spent loafin’. That’s fat; but sometimes there’s some lean, an’ lots of it—I got to take th’ one with th’ other. This is th’ lean. So I’m goin’ after ’em alone. I’ll mebby change my mind after I see th’ lay of th’ land. Just th’ same, I’ll shore be obliged to you for whatever you can tell me about ’em.”

  Hopalong laughed, and then his face grew keen from speculation.

  “Reckon I can tell you quite a lot,” he said. “You know, I been watchin’ th’ side of th’ trail, lookin’ for a pair of boots. I wonder how close I guessed?”

  The sheriff raised one side of his big hat, gently scratching under it, and his expression was one of admiring respect. He was beginning to like this red–haired gawk from the south. This trail boss had brains, and brains were so scarce as to be at a premium.

  “Dirty Smith found th’ boots,” he said, his keen eyes on those of his companion. “Dirty is a nester, a little southwest of here, on Crooked Crick. He was drivin’ in to Buffalo for a load of supplies. That’s what he said. I figger he was drivin’ in for a skinful of liquor. His hosses shied an’ like to run away with him. Dirty got ’em in hand an’ circled back to see what had scared ’em. He got one quick look at somethin’ curious just as th’ team bolted again. It looked like Hoke Redfield, our trail cutter. Dirty circled again, an’ this time th’ team behaved. It was Hoke. He was lyin’ in th’ brush with one boot out in plain sight. Th’ back of his head was mostly missin’. There warn’t no papers on him. Yore guess was right good.”

  Hopalong nodded.

  “That was about th’ way I figgered it,” he said thoughtfully. “Is there any C 80 cattle outfit hereabouts, or back along?”

  “Not none registered in our county brand book,” answered the sheriff. He was still trying to read his companion’s face. “Seems like, for such a good guess, you musta had somethin’ purty damn right to figger by. I know how you fellers feel about trail cutters, an’ I know they shore are a nuisance to a driver; but you got to admit th’ right of it.”

  “I ain’t got no bone to pick with a real an�
�� decent cutter,” replied Hopalong slowly. Blood surged into his face as anger flickered across it like heat lightning. “If it had been yore friend Hoke who had demanded a cut, I’d likely been saved a heap of trouble. Th’ feller that killed him an’ stole his papers shore raised hell with us. That was some days back. Yo’re mebby headin’ th’ wrong way. Anyhow, you don’t need no deppeties.”

  “That’s a right consolin’ thought,” replied the sheriff, this time scratching under an armpit. “You lose many head?”

  “Sixty, temporary. We got ’em all back ag’in. Every last one. You don’t need no deppeties.”

  The sheriff pondered the last statement, a statement twice repeated. His eyes twinkled. Evidently homicide had been perpetrated in his jurisdiction; and, also evidently, it was justifiable homicide, and still evidently, it saved him the job of doing the same thing. These men were strangers, this trail boss and his crew, with a valuable herd on their hands. They would not want to be held up by any legal red tape. He decided not to press for certain details, and he scratched again, this time more vigorously.

  “Take yore word for that,” he said, with a faint chuckle. “I figger you most generally know what yo’re talkin’ about. You don’t reckon you’d like to tell me about th’ other things that happened, do you?”

  Hopalong nodded and produced the papers of the defunct trail cutter. He handed them over without a word and waited patiently while the officer examined them.

  The sheriff folded them carefully and slowly put them into a pocket, and then looked with interest at the silent trail boss.

  “How come you got holt of ’em?”

  Hopalong told him.

  “I’ll bet you two bits you got C 80 critters in yore herd,” said the sheriff, grinning broadly.

  “From what I’ve seen of you, I’d shore never figger that you’d bet with a total stranger on a shore thing,” replied Hopalong, also grinning.

  “An’ that spot of blood,” mused the sheriff. He looked up. “Young man, you got a right smart head on you. You wasn’t guessin’ about them boots, not by a damn sight. How many was in th’ gang?”

  Hopalong told him.

  “How many are left?”

  Again Hopalong told him.

  “Hell!” swore the sheriff, glancing southward in indecision. His face brightened. “An’ I reckon yo’re shore right about me headin’ th’ wrong way; but——” he said, again changing his mind, and became silent.

  “They mebby have their headquarters past where I turned back,” said the trail boss. “All I wanted was th’ cattle. Or mebby they was just circlin’ through that country to lose us.”

  “Which you ain’t told me nothin’ about,” reproved the sheriff. “You fellers will be usin’ this trail ag’in, you an’ yore friends. Th’ safer it is, th’ better it’ll be for you. An’ Hoke was a likable feller. You figger you’d like to tell me anythin’?”

  Nodding, Hopalong told what there was to tell, strictly from his own viewpoint, and described the men who had been overtaken with the stolen cattle. The sheriff listened attentively, nodding occasionally; but when he heard the descriptions of the riders his nods became more emphatic.

  “Reckon I know about who they are,” he observed slowly. “Mebby I shoulda said was,” he added, seemingly as an afterthought. He really was voicing an inquiry, which was made plain by his inflection.

  “Don’t reckon you need to bother with ’em,” replied the trail boss. “I told you that you didn’t need no deppeties.”

  “Uh–huh,” grunted the peace officer. “Which one of ’em was th’ boss?”

  “None of ’em. Th’ boss wasn’t with ’em; neither he nor th’ feller I had to shoot, back on this trail.”

  “Then you ain’t described them two yet?”

  “I was holdin’ ’em back while I made up my mind,” replied the trail boss, smiling grimly.

  “You figger to get ’em yoreself?” asked the peace officer mildly.

  “Reckon that was in my mind, but I dunno. I kinda hoped I’d run acrost ’em; but I shore wasn’t figgerin’ on wastin’ no time in huntin’ ’em up. I got a herd of cattle on my hands.”

  While they talked, things kept on moving around them. The chuck wagon had become lost to sight over a rise. The front ranks of the herd drew steadily nearer, and the two men rode off the trail to let the animals pass. The sheriff was watching the plodding steers, and he nodded in sudden appreciation.

  “Finest–lookin’ critters I’ve seen in years, all in one bunch,” he said, his gaze shifting from brand to brand, and then resting mildly on his companion’s face. “You ain’t said what th’ boss trail cutter looked like,” he suggested.

  Hopalong described that interesting person, and the sheriff rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “Common kinda coyote,” he growled. “I know three, four men that that would describe. Two of ’em can be throwed out at th’ start. That leaves Lou Mays an Lon Hardy. H’m’m’m.” He was silent for a moment and then nodded. “Well, that’s a help, at that. I know where they hang out. Right in my own home town. There’s a place over east, too, that might stand a combin’. Sorta hangout, it is.”

  Hopalong’s expression did not change, but he knew about the hangout over east. He had good cause to remember it.

  “Well,” said the sheriff, “seein’ I’ve rid so far, reckon I might as well go farther: that trail you follered, over southwest, might lead to their headquarters. I might find that wounded feller there. What you say he looks like?”

  Hopalong laughed, but described the man he had shot a few days before.

  “I figger he’s a stranger to me,” said the peace officer, with regret. “There’s lots of strangers movin’ around these days. Anybody that’s got a right to throw yore herd up for a cut will shore have new papers, seein’ we got th’ old uns. I’m keepin’ these, if you don’t care. See you up at th’ pens, mebby.”

  Hopalong glanced at the edge of the papers sticking out of an upper vest pocket, nodded, replied to the parting salute, and swung in behind the drag, his eyes critically studying the drag rider. Billy’s wound apparently was getting along all right—at least the drag man was looking good. He said a few words to Billy and then passed the flankers on the left side of the herd and finally slowed at Lanky’s side up on left point. Lanky concealed his curiosity and merely grunted a welcome.

  “You don’t have to worry no more about drivin’ west so as to get on th’ other side of th’ state line,” said the trail boss with a knowing smile. “We didn’t commit no felonies when we turned back them trail cutters an’ took their papers.”

  “Wrong man had th’ papers, huh?” replied Lanky. “I figgered it that way.”

  “Like hell you did!” retorted the trail boss. “You was scared we’d all be put in jail.”

  They jogged along in silence for several hundred yards, the sound of the smoothly moving herd like music in their ears. Then Hopalong spoke again.

  “I was just talkin’ with th’ sheriff,” he said needlessly.

  “Saw his badge,” grunted Lanky and gently urged an erring steer back where it belonged. As he returned to his chosen point position he looked sharply up the trail at another curling finger of dust. “Here comes Pete. He’ll say th’ crick’s wet, like it allus is.” He shot a sidewise glance at his companion and decided to rub it in. “Which any damn fool knows.”

  “I’d rather have you think me a damn fool than to be one,” retorted the trail boss, pushing ahead toward the distant rider. Lanky grinned and thumbed his nose after his departing boss.

  Pete reported that there was plenty of water in the creek, and rode on to relieve Billy from the distasteful job with the drag.

  The herd pushed on, the rising and falling shoulders and hips of a thousand cattle, each set seemingly balanced on diagonals, giving a peculiar wavelike effect. The dust soared high, the sun blazed down. Mirage quivered above the heated plain and put ghostly pools and lakes in the hollows along the base of a far
–distant ridge. Horns sometimes clicked on horns, and the clack, shuffle, clack of thousands of hoofs beat out an unending sound which was almost soporific. Through the mirage the distant chuck wagon, again climbing up a slope, swelled and shrank and took unto itself fantastic shapes and proportions. The herd pushed on.

  VIII

  The cook spat into the fire and stirred, shifting his crossed legs. His huge shadow on the canvas cover of his precious wagon joggled and grew suddenly black as the fire fitfully flared.

  “Damn th’ gypsum water,” he growled. “It shore gits my stomach an’ bowels.”

  “We’re near past it,” said Hopalong, leaning back against his saddle.

  “If a feller had three, four weeks of it,” said Red thoughtfully, “it’d git him bad. I knowed a couple of fellers that near died from it.”

  Hopalong nodded, silently reviewing the subject from his own experience. He dug up a depleted tobacco sack, made a cigarette from the dust, and tossed the bag on the fire. He had been thinking about the hangout over east, which the sheriff had mentioned.

  “You got any more tobacco, cook?” he asked.

  “Not none to speak of,” grunted the cook, leaning forward a little. “An’ my flour’s ’most gone. We got to tighten our belts an’ chaw rawhide if this cow expedition goes on much longer.” He frowned. “This is th’ second time I told you.”

  “Uh–huh,” grunted Hopalong. “Th’ first time was near two weeks ago, an’ I reckon I was right when I coppered it. You shore, this time?”

  “Th’ tin cup scraped bottom this mornin’,” answered the cook. He looked worried, as well he might; the nearest town, Buffalo, was many miles away.

  Hopalong nodded, and a faint smile slipped across his face.

  “Me an’ you’ll get an early start in th’ mornin’, with th’ wagon, an’ go get some,” he said. “You better figger out just what you need. Start off with flour an’ tobacco.”