Reaching the edge of the meadow Jim called a halt. He passed the order for his men to fan out, to cover as much ground as possible as they advanced. Riding forward in a long line abreast, the Rocking-T crew moved out across the silent, moon-dappled meadow.
It took only a minute for Jim to realize that Boxed-O had gone. Their aim tonight had only been to scatter Rocking-T’s herd. This they had done, and that was enough for them this time. A running fight had not been on their minds.
Once again Jim brought his crew to a halt. He sat listening to the night, his ears straining to catch any sound. He heard nothing. And he realized that there was nothing to hear. Then, as he prepared to give the order to move out, he caught the faintest whisper of sound sifting gently across the meadow. Puzzled he leaned forward in the saddle and his eyes caught the soft sway of movement that was rippling across the meadow grass. Jim realized that what he had heard was the sound of a breeze blowing through the meadow, and then he could feel it cutting through his shirt and chilling his sweat-damp body, it was a cold breeze, coming in over the hills from the far north.
A horse brushed in close to Jim’s and he glanced round. Jan Dorn, his broad face taut and thrust forward, was tasting the air. He nodded in satisfaction. ‘You feel her, Jim,’ he said, ‘you feel her?’
‘It’s for rain, Jim, boy,’ came the voice of the old puncher, Hank. ‘No other wind like it. Man, it’s goin’ to rain like hell let loose.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Jim said. He raised his eyes to the sky and saw cloud scudding in from the north. Maybe Hank was right, he thought. He squared round in his saddle, faced his men. ‘Move out, boys, but take it slow and easy. It looks like Boxed-O has gone home, only let’s tread careful till we make sure.’
As he led his crew out again Jim saw Rem Callender moving forward on foot. Callender seemed to have spotted something. He stepped out into the open, rifle at the ready, moving smooth and fast. And then he was crouching, kneeling over something that lay in the long grass.
‘Jim, over here.’ Callender’s voice was brittle, urgent.
Urging his horse forward Jim rode out across the meadow. Reaching Callender he swung out of the saddle.
For a few seconds Jim wasn’t sure he was seeing the truth, but the illusion didn’t stay with him long. He realized bitterly that he was facing cold hard fact.
Andy Jacobs and Ben Nolan lay close together in the trampled grass. A few yards beyond lay the humped shape of a downed horse. A hot sickness welled up in Jim as he dropped to his knees. He threw an empty glance at Callender.
‘They’re in a bad way, Jim. Looks like the stampede caught ’em head on.’
Jim bent over Andy Jacobs, gently raising his head. He tried not to look at the torn, bloody mess that was Jacobs’ body. The white duster was in tatters and red with blood. ‘Andy? Andy, you hear me?’
Jacobs’ eyes opened slowly and he stared up at Jim. He seemed to be trying to bring his eyes into focus.
‘I walked right into this one, Jim,’ he said. Speaking was an effort, obviously painful. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth, running down his chin.
‘Just hold on, Andy, we’ll get you home,’ Jim told him. ‘Just hold on.’
‘I’ll try, boy,’ Jacobs said, ‘but don’t set your heart on me getting there. God, Jim, but I hurt.’ He fell to coughing then, blood spilling from his slack mouth. He raised one of his shattered hands and clutched at Jim’s arm. His body arched convulsively, his face twisting in sudden, silent agony. He sought Jim’s face again with his eyes. ‘Don’t let it go, Jim. Don’t let the bastard take it. You hear me, Jim? Jim, you there?’ His eyes rolled upwards, a shuddering breath escaped him and he died before Jim could say a word.
Jim stayed where he was, cradling Jacobs’ body in his arms. It was a hard thing to accept. Andy Jacobs gone. A part of Rocking-T impossible to replace. For Jim Talman it was a heavy blow, and right then he felt lost and completely alone. Suddenly he felt weary and cold.
The Rocking-T crew gathered round in silence. Jacobs’ death was a shock for them all, and every man there had lost something. Jacobs had been a tough, uncompromising ramrod, hard when it mattered, but he’d been a friend to every Rocking-T rider and none of them would ever forget that.
Jan Dorn, his hat in his big hands, said, ‘We take Andy home, Jim.’ When Jim didn’t answer the Dutchman knelt beside him, a firm hand on Jim’s shoulder. ‘Is better we take him home, Jim. Is better for us all.’
‘He’s right, Jim,’ Rem Callender said. ‘Sheriff needs doctoring. He’s banged up pretty bad.’
Awareness came back into Jim’s eyes. He’d forgotten about Ben Nolan. A slow anger began to smolder in him. Olsen had a lot to answer for, by God, and answer he would.
Horses were brought up and willing hands helped to put the unconscious Nolan onto one, with a man in the saddle to keep him there. Andy Jacobs’ body was placed on another and somebody covered him with a blanket.
Jim called Jan Dorn to him. ‘Dutchy, ride for town. Find Doc Baily and get him out to Rocking-T.’
Dorn nodded and swung into the saddle. He reined his horse about and thundered off into the night.
‘Rem, you and Josh ride up to the spring. See if the boys are all right.’
‘Will do, Jim. You want us to take over from them?’
Jim nodded. ‘Do that, Rem.’
As Callender and Keel mounted up and rode out, Jim and the rest of the Rocking-T crew moved out and began the ride back home. For once the general banter and laughter was missing. A silence lay over the crew, a quietness that would be with them for a long time.
They reached the gully that marked their trail to the foot of the hills. The earth was torn and churned by the recent passing of the stampeding herd. A number of mutilated carcasses showed where cattle had stumbled, fallen and had been overwhelmed by the mass of the herd.
As they made their way down the gully, riding slowly over the treacherous ground, it began to rain. It was faint at first, then the few drops turned to many and the skies opened suddenly. Within minutes they were riding through a torrential downpour, a heavy, almost solid sheet of water that tumbled out of a sky turned ugly and black.
Jim turned his face to the darkened sky. Wide, swollen clouds filled the air, sullen and angry looking. There was no mistaking their shape. They were storm clouds, of the kind that meant rain and then more rain. Things had gone from one extreme to the other, he reflected. First drought and now the distinct possibility of everything being flooded by a prolonged spell of rain. Jim hunched his shoulders against the chill of the rain and the clammy cling of his soaked shirt. Nothing ever really changed, he thought, all that happened was that you changed one set of problems for another.
Behind him his crew rode in dejected silence, bodies held rigid against the cold and wet. Their thoughts were as black and somber as the sky above them, and more than one of them held thoughts of killing in their minds.
Some way beyond them the Rocking-T creek was beginning to fill. The rain sluiced down out of the heights, soaking the ground, then finding its natural way to the winding stream. The water level rose swiftly, breaching the banks as it splashed downstream. Reaching bottom it foamed its way across the shadowed range.
The drought was over, but the threatening violence and anger-heat remained as strong as ever. For a short time things might simmer, appear to cool down, and then the fuse would spark into life again. It had to come. It was as natural as day following night and just as unavoidable.