Trail Dust Read online

  “Not nothin’ yet; but we come out to help you shift th’ cavvy,” replied Hopalong. “We’ll drive it back acrost th’ trail an’ hold it there. Red’ll stay with you. You’ll have to spell each other.”

  Grunts of surprise sounded in the darkness.

  “What fool idear you got now?” demanded Red, with some asperity.

  “One that I’ve had all day, off an’ on,” retorted the trail boss. “Come on; let’s get busy an’ shift this cavvy.”

  “This may be yore idear of a good time, but it shore ain’t mine,” growled Red.

  “Yo’re so damn grouchy you wouldn’t know a good time if you saw one,” retorted the trail boss. “Come on: quit grouchin’ an’ let’s start!”

  They drove the horse herd slowly northward and then on an arc of a circle until it reached a point as far east of the trail as it had been west of it. There the trail boss stopped the driving and quietly watched the cavvy until thoroughly satisfied by its actions that it would settle down.

  “Pete, you an’ Red can figger out yore shifts to suit yoreselves,” said Hopalong, wheeling his mount to face the trail. “Drive ’em back ag’in at daylight.”

  Red raised an indignant voice in the darkness.

  “Wait a minute, Hoppy!” he called, his words clipped. “What you figger yo’re doin’? Don’t you reckon I need my sleep?”

  “I know what I’m doin’, an’ you’ll get yore sleep, some of it, if you ain’t bothered; an’ I don’t reckon you’ll be bothered over here,” replied the trail boss. “You ain’t takin’ yore shift with th’ cattle, are you?” He continued without giving Red a chance to reply: “While you an’ Pete are takin’ things easy over here, me an’ th’ rest of th’ boys will be ridin’ guard on th’ cattle, over west, till sun–up. Them fellers back at Waggoner’s have had time to get hosses an’ guns. How could they get square? How could they pay us back an’ hurt us plenty? By stampedin’ an’ drivin’ off our cavvy. We’ve already had one sample of a night raid. They could run cayuses a long ways before mornin’. If they did that, then everythin’ would purty near go to hell. I’ve been smellin’ trouble ’most all day. They won’t be able to find th’ cavvy now, unless you go loco an’ light a fire for ’em. We’ll be in th’ spot they’ll head for. You an’ Pete will mebby have it easy, compared with us.” He kneed his horse and spoke to Johnny: “Come on, Kid, let’s be ridin’.”

  “Hey! Listen, Hoppy!” yelled Red frantically, fearing that he was missing a fight. “You’ll be needin’ me an’ my Sharps! Hey! Listen!”

  Over the sudden drumming of the departing hoof beats came a derisive voice as the trail boss made reply:

  “You an’ yore Sharps! It’ll be too damn dark to see rifle sights. You stay there with Pete!”

  Johnny’s voice chimed in, jeeringly, eagerly. It was his opportunity to return Red’s insult of a few days before, and in Red’s own words.

  “You got a razor, Red?” he asked, and the Kid’s laughter died out swiftly.

  Red pushed up his hat with an angry gesture and swore loudly; but that was all the good it did him. He remained with Pete, whose voice now intruded on his thoughts.

  “What shift you want to take?” asked the night wrangler, placidly.

  “Any damn shift a–tall!” snapped Red.

  Whereupon Pete calmly chose the first shift, which would let him enjoy the comfort of his blanket roll from midnight until dawn.

  * * *

  [1] Note by author: This was the customary computation in use on the southern ranges at the time of this story.

  XII

  Hopalong pulled up at the fire, while Johnny rode out to join the two riders with the cattle.

  “Between now an’ mornin’,” said the trail boss calmly, and with a faint smile, “this fire will mebby be right unhealthy.” He looked at Billy, who was unrolling his blankets preparatory to turning in. “Fork yore cayuse, Billy, an’ foller me.”

  Billy looked up with some surprise, his hands holding to the blankets. His trick with Red was some hours off.

  “Where’s Red, an’ what’s up, Hoppy?” he asked curiously.

  “Red’s with Pete, an’ nothin’s up yet,” answered the trail boss. “Roll up them blankets an’ come along with me.” The speaker turned, as Billy obeyed, and looked down at the cook and the trail cutter.

  “I don’t know where to send you fellers,” he slowly said; “but I figger almost any place will be healthier than this. Th’ darker it is, an’ th’ quieter you keep, th’ better off you’ll mebby be. Waggoner’s gang ain’t likely to forget th’ blazer I run on ’em. Me an’ th’ boys will be out with th’ herd. Th’ cavvy’s been shifted. It’ll take some time to find it in th’ dark, if they can find it; an’ if they do find it, Red an’ Pete will be waitin’ for ’em. We prodded Red before we left, an’ he’ll be pizen mad till daylight. If you boys want to risk it you can stay right here; but I’d shore copper that if I was you. We’ll see you in th’ mornin’.”

  “Wait a minute!” snapped the trail cutter, remembering that this trail boss had killed the man who had murdered another trail cutter. He was holding that man’s job, right now. “I’m a right pore sleeper, an’ I crave excitement. Hoke Redfield was a friend of mine. I’m teamin’ up with you boys.”

  “You needn’t put on no airs!” snorted the cook, reaching for his boots. “I’m doin’ th’ same thing. I owe that gang a plenty.” While he talked he was kicking dirt over the fire. Somehow his head began to feel much better, but he still had a healthy grouch and a Winchester. He fairly yearned for slaughter. He had no horse, but the trail cutter proved to be a friend in need, and the horse did not seriously object to carrying double. In another moment the dead fire stank beside the deserted wagon.

  The sleeping cattle lay on the little prairie swell, caressed by a gentle wind. Here or there some animal blew contentedly or chewed its cud in bovine placidity. The two shift riders drifted endlessly on a wide circle around the bedded herd, softly singing and paying no attention to a certain point on the prairie just southeast of them, where reinforcements were hidden by the night. Midnight came and passed, and then there came the sounds of many movements as the cattle got to their feet for a sort of midnight stretch, stood quietly for a few moments and then again lay down, changing sides. Sometimes this was a critical moment, but all was peace and tranquillity on this night.

  From the southeast there came a low singing, steadily growing nearer, and the slow, steady beats of walking horses could be heard. The night herder on the side nearer the trail stopped his horse and waited. Two figures pushed into sight and then into a silhouetted definition. They still were singing, and they did their talking in song.

  “Well, th’ night’s half gone an’ nothin’s happened yet,” chanted one of them cheerfully.

  “Shore suits me,” grunted the shift rider, pressing knees against his horse. “They’ve just got up an’ lay down ag’in. See you at breakfast.” He drifted off into the darkness, his relief moving off on the circle.

  The second relief man sat quietly in his saddle, waiting for the owner of the barely heard voice to come around to him. A blot in the night grew slowly and became a mounted man. The low chant continued, but its words were now different.

  “Any trouble?” he asked, well knowing that if there had been he would have heard it when it started. After two hours of being by himself it was a relief to talk to a human.

  “Not none a–tall,” softly answered his relief. The speaker yawned prodigiously and grinned in the dark. “Seems like I just got to sleep when Hoppy shook me. Everythin’ all right out here?” he needlessly asked.

  “Shore,” grunted the relieved shift rider, facing in the direction of the dark and silent camp. “They’re all yourn now: take ’em. I can use some sleep.” He rode away in the night, his place taken by his friend, and the low chanting continued, but in another voice.

  The first relieved night rider on his way to camp heard the metallic clicks before he cou
ld see anything. He pulled up abruptly.

  “All right, Hoppy,” he softly called.

  “All right: come ahead,” said a low voice from the dark ground somewhere to his right.

  The rider grinned. This was businesslike. A man lying flat on the ground could see at night for a surprising distance. Anything moving against the faint light of the sky would be visible long before the prone watcher could be seen. The blotting out of the light of a star was all that was needed.

  The rider went on again at a walk. When he stopped he could make out the shapeless blots on the ground which were sleeping men. He took care of his horse and returned on foot. In a few moments his blankets were spread, his boots off. In another moment he was asleep.

  The second returning rider also heard the sharp clicks. They were on his left. He, too, pulled up abruptly.

  “Don’t you shoot me,” he chuckled. “I reckon nothin’s goin’ to happen.”

  “Mebby not,” grunted the prone sentry. “Hope not, anyhow.”

  “Yeah,” replied the rider.

  “Cattle quiet?” asked the sentry.

  “Yeah. They just lay down ag’in.”

  “You boys ridin’ wide of ’em, like I said?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right. Get yore sleep.”

  “Reckon Red an’ Pete’re makin’ out all right,” said the rider.

  “Reckon so. Get yore sleep.”

  “Buenas noches.”

  “Good–night,” replied the sentry as he turned around to face in the other direction. There was a ridge a little to the south which was silhouetted against the faint light of the sky, and Hopalong watched it closely. His eyes played him tricks, but he knew all about that.

  Two hours later was another shift, and still another two hours after that. Dawn paled the eastern sky and stretched its pearly sheet swiftly westward. That strange thing on the ridge which had puzzled the trail boss all night now became two clumps of grass, peculiarly arranged in relation to each other. He grinned at them and stretched.

  The sleeping figures in camp stirred restlessly but did not waken. After a moment the cook moved an arm, pushed the blanket from him, and gravely observed a new day, crisp and bright. He sat up, looked around him with an expression of wonderment on his sleepy countenance. Where in hell was——Then he nodded, turned at the waist, and saw the wagon just where they had left it the night before. He yawned, stretched, and reached for his boots. Shortly thereafter he was on his way to the wagon, there to light his fire and get breakfast started. The riders out with the herd were watching him with a keen interest. They were hungry.

  Some distance from the little camp in the other direction Johnny Nelson moved under the hand on his shoulder.

  “Yes, Hoppy!” He was wide awake.

  “Time to get up, Kid. Cook’s headed for th’ wagon a’ready.”

  Johnny nodded and drew on his boots. Then he looked at his friend accusingly.

  “You let me sleep right through!”

  “Yeah,” replied Hopalong. “Somehow I wasn’t a mite sleepy.” He ignored his companion’s protests and looked at the distant herd, now on its feet and already spreading out to feed. Then he glanced at the little temporary camp, and from it on to the wagon. The cook was bending over his economical fire, and the first faint streamer of smoke was climbing skyward, straight as the flight of an arrow.

  Things seemed to move even smoother after breakfast. Sleepiness went out of all faces, smiles began to appear. Here and there a snatch of song could be heard. A little good–natured chaffing rewarded the trail boss for his needless precautions of the night before; but the trail boss, enjoying his first cigarette since last night’s supper, was placidly looking at the feeding herd, and the pleasantries glanced off his hide like hail from a roof. He saw the cavvy appear, and it brought a grin to his face.

  Two men rode off to relieve the riders with the cattle, so the latter could enjoy their breakfasts. Saddle girths were being tested. The fresh mounts had been selected, the night horses turned into cavvy, and the cavvy driven off again, to graze and move forward under the watchful eyes of the day wrangler. For some reason Red had nothing to say, and that meant that everything was serene.

  The trail cutter, ready to ride on about his day’s business, stopped at the side of the boss.

  “Well, they didn’t bother you last night,” he said with a smile.

  “No, they didn’t,” imperturbably replied Hopalong. “Which was just as well; but that makes it a little more certain for tonight.”

  “Uh–huh,” said the trail cutter for the sake of saying something. He pulled his hat down a little more firmly on his head. “Well, I got me some work to do. I figger to start with th’ herds farthest up th’ trail an’ work back this way. In case I’m anywhere near you tonight I’ll join up with you, in case I’m needed.”

  “Good. Be glad to have you,” said the trail boss with a grin. “I shore figger to be waitin’ for ’em ag’in tonight. They’re mebby due.”

  “Uh–huh,” grunted the trail cutter. “Well, so–long. So–long, cook.”

  “So–long,” said the cook, smiling for the first time in thirty–six hours. His head had resumed its natural proportions, his mouth was sweet again, and so was his disposition. As he poured the boiling water on the eating utensils in the wreck pan, he burst into song.

  The trail boss regarded him for a moment, glanced at the work horses harnessed and hitched to the wagon, flipped a hand carelessly and rode slowly off in the direction of the drifting cattle. The slight frown on his face disappeared: there was no use worrying any more about Waggoner and his crowd until night fell.

  XIII

  It was mid–forenoon before the Circle 4 really started up the trail. Hopalong had been content to let the cattle drift lazily along, from one bit of grazing on to the next, satisfied under the circumstances to let them feed rather than to gain mileage, but he was conscious of the fact that he was supposed to have them at the pens in Bulltown on a specified date.

  On the trail north of him were the herds which had come in over the branch trail from the Squaw, and, according to the trail cutter, the last two of these were beef herds bound for the open range near Bulltown and the shipping pens. These two, in turn held up by the closely spaced range herds ahead of them, were marking time and letting the cattle feed well while the gaps between the whole eleven herds opened up into more reasonable distances.

  Hopalong, riding up around the left side of the scattered cattle, at last reached Lanky Smith and stopped for a moment to speak to him.

  “Reckon I’ll go up th’ line an see what things look like up there,” he said.

  “You figger on passin’ some of ’em, if you get th’ chance?” asked Lanky.

  “Reckon so. We’re beginnin’ to lose some of th’ time we saved back along,” replied the trail boss. “We got a delivery date to think about. If I find them two beef herds well off th’ trail I’ll begin to think about passin’ ’em. I don’t mind gettin’ behind th’ range stockers, because they’ll be movin’ faster than we will. It’s them two beef herds we got to think about.”

  “Might make trouble,” said Lanky, not speaking from fear but rather from the angle of fact. “Some trail outfits are right touchy about bein’ passed.”

  “There’s a right side to ’most everythin’,” replied his companion. “An’ nobody’s got th’ right to block a drive trail. I’ll know more about it when I get back.”

  “Then we’ll keep ’em as they are,” said Lanky.

  “Yeah. See you later.”

  Hopalong rode on, his questing gaze on the northern sky. There were no dust signs, no indications of moving cattle. Mile after mile went behind him, and then he saw what he had ridden up to find. Two miles to the east of the patchy trail was a grazing herd, well spread out. Its position, in regard to his problem, was plain enough: it had given up its place as a trail herd and could be passed by any herd behind it. Of course, there was no law against a
forced passing, but custom was rather strong against it. It was not polite.

  The trail boss turned toward the distant wagon and replied to the gestured greetings of a rider with the cattle; and as he changed the course of his riding, he saw a rider leave the farthest fringes of the herd and also head in for the wagon. The two men reached that point at the same time. It was nice timing on the stranger’s part.

  Hopalong nodded to the loafing cook and raised a hand in salute to the slowing horseman.

  “Howdy,” he said. “I got a bunch of Circle 4s a few miles down th’ trail, an’ figgered I’d come up an’ see what the chances are for us to make up a little lost time. You fellers figgerin’ to throw back onto th’ trail right soon?”

  “Yore herd beef for th’ market?”

  “Beef for th’ pens,” answered Hopalong.

  “Well,” said the stranger slowly, “we pushed ’em purty hard from th’ ford of th’ Squaw. If we found that we had plenty of time, we was aimin’ to let ’em put some flesh on their bones. Yo’re headin’ for Bulltown?”

  “Yeah,” answered Hopalong.

  His companion was regarding him closely.

  “You said for th’ pens. Then you ain’t lookin’ for a buyer?”

  “No,” answered Hopalong. “We’re sold on delivery.”

  “Yeah. That’s right good,” replied the other trail boss. He now did not need fear that the Circle 4s would lower cattle prices at the pens in case general conditions were unfavorable. They were not in the market, but were sold already. “Reason I asked,” he said, with a grin, “was because we’ll be lookin’ for a buyer, an’ already there’s one beef herd ahead of us.”

  “You hadn’t oughta have no trouble findin’ a buyer this early in th’ season,” said Hopalong, also grinning. “We’re purty well ahead of th’ peak of th’ beef outfits this year. Th’ trail cutter told me that nine herds ahead of me are range stockers. That leaves you, an’ that other outfit ahead, a purty clear field. That also means that if I get in behind th’ trail stockers they’ll be movin’ further out of my way every day we travel.”