Trail Dust Page 7

  The cook gathered up the reins, swore deeply at the nigh horse, and watched his companion ride off down the hollow behind the ridge. He started the team and jogged along toward the distant warts, which steadily came nearer. Several horses could now be seen, and then the tie rails to which they were fastened. Then he could see a dusty flour barrel through the grimy window near the left–hand wall. The wagon stopped, and the cook climbed stiffly down. He stretched his cramped muscles and lazily moved around to the head of the team, to tie it to the rail. He heard a door open and glanced up to see a bearded man standing on the threshold.

  The cook grinned, pushed the Stetson back on his head, and reached for the tobacco tag hanging out of an upper vest pocket.

  “Mornin’,” he said cheerfully.

  “Mornin’,” grunted Waggoner, his gaze on the brand of one of cook’s horses. He appeared to be a little puzzled and uneasy. Neither of the brands was Bar 20; but cook could see the man’s memory scratching in the litter of the past.

  “Got a empty flour barrel,” said the cook. “Near out of tobacco, too. Could use a little more bacon and sow belly with our beans. How you fixed?”

  “Got all you need,” answered Waggoner. “Where you from?” he asked carelessly. His eyelids drew a little closer together.

  “Down south,” answered the cook, which anybody would have known without being told.

  “Trailin’?” asked the proprietor needlessly. His eyes were on the chuck wagon, taking in its details.

  “Yeah,” answered the cook and then yielded to an inspiration to lie: “Old man bought a beef herd down south an’ sent us down to bring it home.”

  “What’s yore road brand?” asked the proprietor, stepping back into the room so that the cook could enter.

  The cook thought swiftly. Any statement regarding road brands could be checked up. This man might even know the brand right now. He voted himself a medal and told the truth:

  “Circle 4. I better lay in another jug of sorghum, too, while I got th’ chance. Strikes me yo’re considerable off th’ trail, for a trader.”

  “That’s so,” admitted Waggoner, turning toward the supply side of the big room. “They shifted th’ trail. Too much trouble to move an’ build again. How come you knew about me an’ where to find me?”

  Cook could now see the other end of the room, here five men had temporarily suspended a card game to interest themselves in Waggoner and the customer. One of them stood up to look through the front window at the chuck wagon. Strata of blue tobacco smoke wavered in the sunlight near a side window, climbing or dipping with the slow and lazy air currents.

  “Met a feller goin’ down th’ trail an’ started pow–wowin’,” answered the cook. He threw a heavy sack of flour on a shoulder, bracing his arm by a hand on a hip, and turned toward the door. As he did so the proprietor slid a molasses jug across the counter, and the cook hooked a finger of his free hand through the handle. In a few moments he was back again, to point out the rest of his needs, and then he looked idly around the room as the proprietor tossed the rest of the order into a big wooden cracker box, laboriously added up the little column of figures, and announced the total. Cook dug deep down into a pocket and brought up a handful of hard money, paid the bill in silver dollars, and pocketed the change.

  “Have a drink,” invited the proprietor. It was not a question.

  “Shore will,” said the cook, ignoring the good advice of his boss. One little drink would not hurt a man; do him good, instead. The trouble with that is that there is no such formula, not under the vicious American customs regarding drinking.

  Waggoner put a glass and bottle on the bar, shoving them both toward the customer. Cook had one, a good one, and then, of course, Waggoner had to have one with him. This stuff was powerful and had no gypsum flavor. He grinned, carefully adjusted his hat, and looked at the waiting card players. He waved a hand at them and chuckled. He was beginning to feel warm and friendly.

  “You hombres ain’t afeared of a little hard liquor, are you?” he asked.

  An unshaven horse thief slowly pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “Naw,” he grunted, moving toward the bar ahead of his friends. “Naw,” he repeated. “I kin lay down right alongside a jug of it ary time.” He laughed while he considered the amount of supplies he had just seen bought. He could use those supplies, he and his friends. “If I had a mind ter, I could show you who’s afeard of good liquor,” he boasted. “There ain’t no man outa Texas who can drink even with me, glass fer glass.”

  “Hell there ain’t!” retorted the cook, motioning for the proprietor to slide out more glasses. He was not out of Texas, but that was a detail of no moment. He was out of the South, and Texas was in the south. It became a sectional matter. This bartender had the right idea: one bottle for one end of the line–up, and another bottle for the other end. Saved reaching and pushing. Saved time, too. After these thoughts had registered he paid no more attention to the bottles, and therefore found no significance in the fact that he alone drank from the bottle nearest him. Had he tasted of the second bottle he might have detected the flavor of gypsum water.

  Time passed, the level of the liquor in the bottles steadily lowered, and the level of the cook’s common sense kept equal pace with it. Finally:

  “Tha’s right,” boasted the cook. “Bar 20. You fellers look funnier ev’ minute. Jes one li’l drink before I go. Shore: it was Pete—he thrun that coyote right plumb through a plank door. Yeah. I heard about that, too: shot him through a water barrel….”

  X

  The trail boss stopped his circling, rode slowly up the slope of the gentle rise until he could just see over it and scrutinized the distant trail station. He was south of it, and the building nearest to him was the original sod hut. It had no windows on that side, and the door of the shed next to it was closed. By riding on a little farther he could get the shed between him and the two windows of the main building.

  The only sign of life was the chuck wagon and the saddle horses at the tie rail. He backed down the slope and rode on again. It should not take long now for the cook to load up and get started; and, consequently, there was as yet no reason for Hopalong to get closer to the buildings. He stopped again, waiting patiently in the saddle. From where he sat he would be able to see the chuck wagon a few minutes after it left the store. From the time which already had passed, it should not be long before the cook left. As soon as Hopalong saw the wagon moving across the flat he would retrace his own trail and join the cook at about where he had left him. There was no reason to be apprehensive: the cook was in no real danger if he followed instructions. Hopalong had accompanied him just to be on the safe side.

  The sun climbed higher, and the shadows crept closer to the weeds which cast them. There was no sign of the chuck wagon; also there still was no sign of life around the buildings. Could the cook have driven from the store at such an angle that he had been screened by it? He must have left by now. Suddenly Hopalong wanted to have a look at the tie rail—and as quickly as he could. To ride back as he had come would take up too much time and put him too far from the station in case he should be needed. There was one thing to do, and only one. He pressed his knees against the horse and pushed up the slope, over the crest and into the open.

  When he approached the shed he was a little in the rear of the line of buildings, screened by them from the sight of anyone in the store; but for effect he hid his desire for speed and rode nonchalantly, innocently. Reaching the buildings, he swung from the saddle and stood motionless for a moment, listening and thinking. Then he slipped into the closed shed, peered through a crack between the boards, and saw the tailboard of the chuck wagon. It made him swear. The wagon was right where the cook had left it, the team tied to the rail. He knew the answer to that: a few drinks—and what that meant: too much talking. He slipped outside, stared at the horse for a moment, and quickly made up his mind. So far his presence was not suspected, but it would be if they saw the horse.r />
  He led the animal into the shed he had just quitted and closed the door upon it. Then he stepped around into the open wagon shed and paused as the murmur of voices came to him. A covered freight wagon shared his quarters with him. It had been backed in, and its tongue lay on the ground under it. Waggoner took good care of it. Its canvas cover was closed at the rear end, leaving only a small oval opening the size of a man’s head in the exact center, just above where the pucker rope crossed itself.

  Hopalong peered through this opening, and then, moving swiftly along the side of the vehicle, climbed the front wheel, and was almost instantly swallowed up.

  The murmuring voices persisted. He would wait a few more minutes and then take the bull by the horns. Damn a man who had to drink in spite of hell and high water; and doubly damn a man who could not stop in time. Then he heard angry shouts and a screamed curse, the latter bit off in the middle.

  He was climbing down the far front wheel when the store door opened and a man jumped through it, ran through the wagon shed, and darted around the corner of the stables, in too much of a hurry to open the doors which stood in his way. He was in such a hurry that he did not see the puncher crouched down against the wheel of the big wagon.

  Hopalong froze for a moment longer and heard the man hammering on the door of the dugout, calling eagerly to someone within. The trail boss slipped around the front of the wagon and leaped for the open door of the store. He slipped into the big room as three men were carrying the limp form of another through the front door, which was being held open by Waggoner. The fourth man had picked up the cook’s hat and was slowly following his companions. If they heard the trail boss they took it for granted that it was their friend returning. The man holding the hat was speaking.

  “Take out th’ supplies first an’ then dump him in an’ turn th’ wagon loose.” The speaker laughed. “If anybody rides up to ask questions, Tom can tell ’em that this coyote bought liquor exclusive. He’ll mebby have to tell ’em somethin’ because they can track th’ wagon here.”

  “If it wasn’t for that I’d fill him full of lead—may do it, anyhow!” growled one of the trio carrying the cook.

  “I’d do it now, only he’s a new man an’ wasn’t with ’em that time,” said Waggoner.

  Hopalong had stepped back so as to have the side door well in front of him.

  “Better drop him where you are,” he said, grimly and evenly, over a pair of Colts.

  Five heads jerked around, five pairs of eyes regarded him with amazement. The five expressions changed from strained incredulity to even more strained belief. The man carrying the hat closed his mouth, and the three carriers let loose of their burden. The jar of the fall momentarily brought the cook back to consciousness, which he proved by kicking one man in the pit of the stomach and another on a shin. The first doubled up in agony and the second man’s eyes filled with tears as he grabbed at the shin with both hands.

  Waggoner’s hands went up slowly, grudgingly. He was too experienced a hand to become foolish in such a situation. There might be a break in the luck. The hat bearer and the man nearest the door followed his lead, swearing under their breath. There came the sound of running feet out in the wagon shed. Waggoner opened his mouth to shout, but the slight shift of a gun muzzle made him change his mind. The lucky break had not yet come. The bewhiskered bully who could drink down any man out of Texas leaped into the room, stiffened as he slid across the floor, and raised his hands with a jerk.

  “You get up there with th’ rest of ’em!” growled the trail boss in a low voice. “Not a sound out of you. I’m waitin’ for yore friend of th’ dugout. I’m Bar 20: Waggoner can tell you what that means. Get!”

  Other steps hurried across the wagon shed, and the occupant of the dugout popped in through the door. It was the boss trail cutter of only a few days before. He caught sight of the newcomer as he crossed the threshold, and leaped back, reaching for a gun as he jumped. The crash of Hopalong’s .44 filled the room and shook the bottles on the back bar. Heads seemed to swell with the concussion. The man who had leaped backward struck the ground outside flat on his back, one booted foot caught by a spur and held grotesquely upward on the second board of the steps.

  Hopalong shuffled forward, his two guns waist high. One quick glance at the quiet cook told him how utterly useless that worthy was. His eyes rested on Waggoner, and he smiled faintly. That smile sent a shiver up Waggoner’s back.

  “I told you once that I’d shoot you on sight,” said the trail boss, evenly. “’Tain’t necessary. Unbuckle yore belt an’ drop it at yore feet…. Good. Now step back, ag’in th’ bar.”

  Hopalong watched him for a moment and then glanced swiftly at one of the others.

  “You with th’ hat! Do th’ same thing, pronto!” The trail boss nodded as the man lined up with the proprietor, and gave the same orders to the others. When they were all in line, he spoke again:

  “Turn around slow, all of you.”

  They slowly turned around.

  “Waggoner, you back over here to me. I’m prayin’ somebody makes a motion!”

  Motions were out of order.

  One by one they were searched from behind and then grouped again. Hopalong walked to the prostrate cook, unbuckled his gun belt, jerked it from under him, buckled it again, and slung it over his own shoulder. He holstered one gun, shoved the other forward suggestively, and scooped up the rest of the gun belts with his free hand. They slid over his forearm and made quite a weight.

  “Pick up that drunken damn fool, all of you, an’ put him in th’ wagon,” ordered the trail boss crisply.

  He followed the slowly moving procession, and after the cook was placed in the wagon with unjustified tenderness, he lined them all up again, this time against the front of the store. Jerking at the tie rope of the nearest saddle horse, he freed it and climbed into the saddle.

  “All right,” he said with a flourish of the gun. “Get started, an’ head west.”

  “What you aimin’ to do?” demanded Waggoner with sullen rage.

  “Shoot th’ next man that opens his mouth!”

  “Hell you say!” growled the erstwhile hat bearer and grabbed his own hat as the black–powder smoke rolled toward him. He sucked in his breath and froze in his tracks.

  “Get started!” snapped the trail boss, waving the gun westward.

  One mile. Two miles. Then the horseman left them to their own society and returned to the buildings at a gallop. He collected the remaining horses and tied them, with the one he had ridden, to the rear end of the wagon box. This done, he ran into the store, grabbed all the rifles in sight, and smashed them against the big cannon stove. The rifles were ruined and so was the stove. The last gun was a Sharps special buffalo rifle, with the ten–pound barrel. The total weight was seventeen pounds. When that gun struck the cast–iron side of the stove, Waggoner was out just what it cost him.

  Hurrying through the side door, Hopalong gave one quick glance at the fictitious trail cutter, and without pausing went on to the closed shed. In a moment he was out again, leading his horse. In another moment he was around in front, tying it with the others. Distant figures were running toward him, waving arms.

  He freed the team from the tie rail, climbed into the seat, and departed in a generous cloud of dust. Tied to the framework beside him was the cook’s rifle. Behind the wagon every horse carried its owner’s rifle in the saddle scabbard. He laughed at the idea of pursuit, now or later.

  Perhaps an hour had passed when he stopped the team near an upthrust ridge of rock, climbed down, and went back to the captured saddle horses. He took the rifles out of the scabbards, unsaddled the animals, and turned them loose, leaving the saddles where they had fallen. One by one he whirled the rifles high over his head and brought them down against the rock ridge. In every case one swing was enough. Climbing back into the wagon, he sent the team forward again, and for the next half–hour amused himself with the captured hand guns. He took them one at a time, r
emoved the cylinder and then threw the frame off in one direction and the cylinder in the other. He took plenty of time between each throw, and he had disposed of the last part when the cook moaned, stirred, and tried in vain to rise on one elbow.

  “Whas masser?” mumbled the culinary artist in slobbery tones.

  “You—go—to—hell!” grated the driver. He looked for the roughest ground he could find and sent the team on at a gallop. Once or twice the cook’s head struck resoundingly against the hard floor of the wagon box, and he passed out again.

  XI

  The chuck wagon wandered a little, but it held fairly well to the proper course, the team knowing its job and doing it with small aid from the driver. The driver was the cook, and a mighty sick cook, at that: for him it was the morning after the day before, and all the well–known symptoms were present, with various bruises added.

  The herd shuffled along in the dust, sending the yellow fog streaming into the air, minute after minute, mile after mile. Lanky Smith now rode at left point, for the trail boss had given himself another job. The corresponding place on right point was proudly handled by Johnny Nelson, youngest of the riders. Occasionally he yielded to a certain restrained eagerness and turned in his saddle to look behind him on his right. He was looking for signs of war, but all he saw was grim preparedness: two distant riders moving parallel with the plodding herd and a little behind it. He thoughtfully rubbed his chin, and the motion reminded him of Red Connors’s uncalled–for criticism of two days before. He flushed and faced around again: just because he didn’t have a beard was no sign that he wasn’t a man. In this he was right, for a great deal of the history of the West was written by beardless youths. During his abstraction two steers had pushed out from the herd and started for a distant bunch of grass, which was exactly no better than the bunches in front of them. Others pushed out to follow them, and Johnny was busy for a moment.