Now, as the cowboys approached, Otio decided to change his tactics, and he ordered the sheep to start down toward the river. This caused a certain amount of consternation among the herders.
“They do not want the sheep near the cows,” Xerxes said.
“They do not like the sheep,” observed Ciriaco.
“It is not for them to like or not like.” Otio’s tone was angry; and he stood there on the slope, stubborn as old Yanni, one of the bull-jawed lead goats famous back in the Sierras. “The lieutenant said we could go on the federal land, and this is the federal land, and down there too, where we plan to go. He said so.”
“But Otio...”
There was no moving him, and they knew it, and so their argument had no force. Now the dogs, led by Moro, moved swiftly and the sheep started down toward the river.
“They s will learn, those cattlemen, that the land is for all,” Otio said defiantly.
It was a barely perceptible slope, and in a few moments the dogs had the sheep spread out like a great carpet over the prairie.
But the horsemen, seeing the maneuver, started riding to head off the sheep, yelling, waving their hats, and cracking the ends of their lariat ropes like whips.
“Hey you—you stop!” shouted Otio, and the other herders took it up, yelling at the cowboys to leave the
sheep alone. But the sheepmen were outmaneuvered, for the cowboys were on horseback, and the herders’ mules were no match for those cattle ponies.
The more the herders yelled at them, the more the cowboys raced among the sheep, terrifying them, chasing the scurrying, scrambling woollies over the prairie, while they roared with glee at the fun they were having.
Suddenly a rifle shot wiped out all that laughter, as one of the horsebackers clutched his arm, hardly remaining in his saddle.
“I wound you only,” Otio shouted. “As warning. Next shoot—I kill! Get out!”
But almost before he’d finished, the cowboys were firing at the sheepmen. Old Enrique was nicked along his right buttock, which brought from the old man a crescendo of oaths. But Otio accounted for the man he had intentionally wounded, his next bullet going through the cowboy’s stomach. And Ciriaco toppled the man riding next to him.
The cowboys had whipped back out of range now, and were conferring.
“Wipe the sons of bitches plumb out!” ordered Ching Domino. “Try and save those fucking woollies, though; we can sell them.”
Cohoes had been chewing pretty vigorously on the wooden match in his mouth, and now, without touching it with his hand, he switched it to the other side of his face. “Take it slow a minute. See that big bastard who shot Collins? He’s their leader. He’s the one to get. Now then, fan out. Run your horses straight at the sons of bitches. Then, just when you get in range, split into three groups—one right down the middle, the other two on each side. I want every damn one of them sheepshitters taken care of. But get that big bastard first. With him gone, they’ll be easy.”
By now the herders had left the sheep to the dogs to handle, and had retreated back to the timber, finding good cover. Xerxes had been hit in the same arm that had been wounded in the fight with Quick Thunder and the Sioux.
“Lucky I am,” he said. “The arm was not being used anvwav.”
■mi -J
On the cowpunchers' first charge, Otio was nicked along the back of his hand. But he dropped one of the attackers, and it made the riders cautious. They rode back to where Cohoes—still not using a gun—was waiting for them.
“We are getting noplace fast,” Ching Domino announced angrily. “That big son of a bitch could knock the balls off a eagle chasing his girl friend, for Chris- sake.”
“How are we on ammo?”
They counted enough to conclude the fight if they could knock off the sheepherders’ leader.
“We’ll send back to the chuckwagon if need be,” Cohoes said, his Adam’s apple pumping up and down fast, “and bring in some more of the boys—except I don’t like to draw men away from the herd. Shit, we’re down two. and Hamgan is hit in the leg, to boot. And Murray’s got a crease across his back.”
“Shit take it,” muttered Ching Domino.
Elihu Cohoes squinted at the sun. “That grass would go like the wind if a man set a match to it. And it is blowin’ right in their direction. Any of you men favor roast mutton?”
Kincaid and his men had successfully avoided confrontation with the Sioux, and had drawn back to where it was possible to branch off on another trail that would lead to the cattle herd.
“Might turn to our advantage them two gettin’ their
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stock close together.” Windy said as they trotted down a long draw. “They won’t be so spread out, and the Sioux can’t pick them off so easy.”
“Thing is to get to the herd before Quick Thunder, in any case,” said Matt. “I don’t think he’s especially anxious at this stage to tangle with the army; though if he gets some more followers, he’ll try to wipe us out.”
“He wants the sheep and cattle first; and you’re right there,” Windy agreed.
It was less than an hour later that they heard rifle fire off their left flank.
“That’ll be the cattle or the sheep, one or t’other” Windy said. “We better push it.”
Matt was already giving the order to lift the pace.
When they were closer, they drew rein. Matt raising his arm in signal to the platoon. The firing was louder; it seemed to be coming from over the ridge right in front of them.
“Sioux, would you say, Windy?”
“Don’t believe so. Don’t hear no whooping and chanting.”
“Sounds like Spencers,” Matt said in another moment.
“I’d say it was the herders locking horns with their cattle buddies.” The scout chuckled. “Jesus, the Sioux’ll let them just knock each other off and then they’ll sashay in, counting coup pretty as you please.”
Matt raised his arm and the horses started off quickly, in a moment breaking into a fast trot. As they cut down the long side of the draw, he lifted the tempo. They were going at a good clip as they swept up toward the lip of the draw and the rifle fire grew louder.
Just as they reached the crest, there came a tremendous crashing of gunfire and they heard the cries of the warriors, who they now saw breaking across the plain toward the cattlemen and sheepherders.
“Guide on my right and on my left,” Kincaid ordered,
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and the platoon poured across the hard ground. Just within rifle range. Matt ordered a halt.
“Sergeant Olsen, give the order to dismount and proceed on foot toward the flanks of the engagement. Extra caution not to hit any whites!”
The Sioux, led by Quick Thunder and Wound, along with a Hunkpapa and an Oglalla chief, were numerous, greatly outnumbering the cattlemen and herders—and, Kincaid wryly decided, outmanning the army as well. But where was Taylor?
Strangely, as though reading his mind, Windy said, “Where do you reckon Taylor got to? He was supposed to meet the herders, right?”
Matt nodded. “Right. But he may have run into something with one of the ranchers. We already know Quick Thunder and his boys were dropping in.”
Suddenly a shout went up, and Olsen called out to Kincaid, “Lieutenant, the grass is fired!”
The flames were not high, but the fire was spreading fast, the slight wind blowing it from the cattlemen toward the herders. The sheep had started to panic at the smell. And now, during a lull in the firing, the combatants watched the flames as the fire, started by Cohoes, raced across the ground.
“It is time for us to haul ass,” Cohoes announced to his men.
Ching Domino was reluctant to leave their quarry, who seemed to be using the cattlemen and their horses for shooting practice.
Cohoes, trying to top Domino’s earlier description of Otio’s shooting, now said, “Bastard could shoot the button off your shirt without cutting the thread.”
“We could whistle up some more of our boys,” Ching Domino said.
Cohoes was shaking his head, his eyes on the spread-