ing fire. “Thing is the cattle. We got to get them to market. Fuck this here. Let ’em have it for now. We got to ship them beeves. Let the goddamn army settle it.”
Billy Golightly delivered his message to Captain Warner Conway, and for a few great moments something inside him said he was a hero. The glory was brief. Sergeant Ben Cohen scowled and made some remark about his piles, and the sight of his hated rival, Harry Venable, lounging outside the sutler’s lowered his spirits even more. There was no sign of Julie Thatcher, to his dismay; for even though he had lost her to that skinny freighter, his dreams of glory, his eagerness for the ride, had all been for her.
“Be doubly careful going back,” Captain Conway cautioned him. “You’ve delivered your message, and the tendency is to relax. Don’t lower your guard. Get it?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be extra careful, sir.”
“We need every man at this point,” said Conway.
“You can count on me, sir.”
Billy rode fast back to where he had left First Platoon, exercising extra care as he approached the cattle herd. He was no stranger to cautious movement. His elder brother had taught him. And so, not riding straight in, he circled the herd, working his way closer.
He was surprised not to find the army there, but he could hear distant gunfire, not close enough to spook the cattle, but still, if it came closer, there could be trouble with a couple thousand head stampeding. The real funny thing was that he only saw three riders. He wondered if the others were at the fighting, though he assumed some riders must be on the far side of the herd. But who was fighting? Was First Platoon up there?
He noted that the cattle appeared to be in good condition; they’d bring a healthy dollar to Cohoes.