CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jake rushed to his fallen friend while the others scanned the horizon in every direction for a shooter.
“Chance, dammit!” Jake said.
He turned and looked at his men.
“Anybody see where that shot came from?”
“Could’ve been those rocks,” Dundee said.
“Or those,” Curly said, pointing.
“We did not see, jefe,” Desi said.
“Is Señor Chance . . . ?” Taco asked.
“Yes, Taco,” Jake said. “He’s dead.”
Then they heard the sound of horses, but they quickly began to fade away.
“Seaforth,” Jake said. “It couldn’t have been anyone else.”
Jake stared out into the distance as the pounding of hooves receded.
“Should we go after them?” Dundee asked.
Jake turned and looked down at Chance.
“No,” he said, “we have to bury Chance and then move on.”
“But, boss—” Dundee said.
“Chance would want us to deliver this herd,” Jake said. “Once we do that, I’ll be back here to find Seaforth.”
“We will all come back, señor,” Taco said.
“No, Taco,” Jake said, “this was my doin’. I convinced Chance to come on this drive, I went into Three Rivers to that store, and I refused to give anythin’ back to Seaforth. I’m sure he wanted one last shot before he and his remainin’ men left. And who knows, they might hit us again before we leave Texas.”
Jake walked to where Chance was lying, stared down at his friend.
“I guess I should’ve left you sleepin’ in the back room of that cantina, amigo.”
“Oh no, señor,” Taco said, “Mr. Chance, he was very happy to be out here on a drive again, with you. He told me so.”
“Did he?” Jake asked. “Thanks for tellin’ me that, Taco. Now let’s get him buried good and proper. I’ll say a few words, and then we’ll be on our way to Dodge City tomorrow.”
“Sí, señor,” Taco said.
“I have two shovels in my wagon, jefe,” Carlito said.
“Good, Carlito,” Jake said, and then to Taco, “Let’s get them, Taco. You and me, we’ll dig.”
“Sí, señor.”
As it turned out, Jake got winded and needed somebody to take over, so the others all took turns. When they had a hole about six feet deep they wrapped Chance in a blanket and lowered him down.
“Do you think it was Seaforth himself who took the shot?” Dundee asked Jake while Desi and Curly filled in the grave.
“It was probably his segundo, or that breed scout, but it don’t matter. I’ll have them all for this, no matter how long it takes me to track them down.”
Jake said a few awkward words over his friend’s grave, broke a couple of planks of wood off the chuckwagon—with Carlito’s permission—to form a cross that he could actually scratch Chance’s name into.
They sat around the fire that night in glum silence, until Carlito and Desi turned in. Curly and Dundee rode out to sit on the herd.
That left the two men who had actually known Chance a long time, sitting together.
“It was deliberate,” Jake said.
“Señor?” Taco said.
“They deliberately waited until they had a clear shot at Chance,” Jake continued.
“Why did the Major not just kill you, señor?” Taco asked.
“Seaforth wanted to punish me by killin’ Chance,” Jake said. “Killin’ me woulda made it too quick.”
“And will he stop there?”
“I doubt he’ll follow us all the way to Kansas,” Jake said. “And he probably won’t even trail us into the territories. So if he doesn’t hit us again in Texas, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about him.”
“Would you like to take a watch, then, Señor Jake?” Taco asked.
“Yeah, Taco, I would. I’ll turn in and you wake me in four hours.”
“Sí, jefe,” Taco said.
Jake walked, shoulders slumped, to his bedroll, lay awake for a long time playing back memories of Chance in his mind, until exhaustion finally overcame him.
So you’re going to let them go?” Garfield asked.
“We’ll let them go for now,” Seaforth said, “but Big Jake Motley is going to come after me, once he delivers his herd.”
“Because we killed that one man?” Garfield asked.
“They were two of a kind,” Seaforth said. “Those old-timers had been riding together a long time. He’s not just going to forget that we killed him.”
“He’s a cowpoke,” Garfield said, “and probably a sodbuster. Why worry about him coming after you?”
“I’m not worried about it, Gar,” Seaforth said, “I’m counting on it.”
“So what do we do in the meantime?” Garfield said. “We’re down to four men.”
They looked over to where Gus Walker was sitting at the second fire with Sequoia.
“We rebuild,” Seaforth said. “We have months before Big Jake comes after us. By then we’ll be at full force again.”
“Do you think he’s going to come alone?” Garfield asked.
“I don’t think even that old fool would be that stupid,” Seaforth said.
“So will he bring the law?”
“Oh, no,” Seaforth said, “he won’t be looking for justice, he’ll be looking for vengeance.”
“You’re giving this old cowboy a lot of credit,” Garfield observed.
“You saw the way he faced us,” Seaforth said. “And you don’t get a name like Big Jake for no reason. At one time he was an influential man. Now he’s at the end of his life, and he doesn’t give up easily. No, he’ll be coming, I’m sure of that.”
They made it through Texas without seeing any sign of Seaforth, his men, or his scout, the breed. Once they crossed the border into the Indian Territory, they were more on the lookout for Indians off the reservations, or comancheros, who were like human buzzards.
They did encounter one band of Indians, who looked as if the group was made up of braves from the Apache, Comanche, Quapaw, Kiowa, and Osage tribes. They weren’t looking to steal anything, they just wanted a few cows for some meals, and Jake decided to give in, without even asking for anything in trade.
They encountered some rain, had to cross running streams, but nothing as bad as they had faced in Texas. They finally crossed the border into Kansas at a town called Liberal. Jake figured by that time they had lost maybe fifty head.
He and Carlito rode into the town, which was sleepy and small, but had a general store. They picked up some supplies without encountering any resistance, and found out from the clerk that they were about seventy miles from Dodge.
When they got back to camp they told the others they had about s week left to get to their destination.
Carlito’s supper that night was his SOB stew, which was prepared from calf parts. The death of Chance still hung over them heavily, like ever-present storm clouds, especially for Jake, whose attitude on the trip since the shooting could only be described as morose.
The other men talked at the fire, but Jake usually just sat eating and didn’t partake in any of the conversations. For one thing, he was now the sole old-timer in the group, didn’t really fit in with the other, younger men. And he didn’t let on to anyone, but his muscles were aching even more than they had been the first week of the drive. He was just hoping he had the strength to make it through the last week.
They kept two men on the herd each night, but didn’t keep any other kind of watch. They no longer feared an attack from Seaforth’s Raiders, Texas wolves, Indians, or comancheros. With a week left they were feeling home free. But the two men babysitting the herd made sure they kept a sharp eye out for anything untoward that might come along.
Jake was getting a full night’s sleep now, but it didn’t seem to help. Each morning he rolled out with a groan, tried to keep the others from realizing he was wearing down. Without Chance to buck him up with a sharp word or a sly look, he was dragging.
The closest to his age was Taco, who was in his forties, but the Mexican seemed to be holding up quite well. Unbeknownst to Jake, all the men were feeling the strain of the drive, and of Chance’s death.
When they left their camp outside of Liberal, everyone was looking forward to the end of the trail.