Chapter Fifteen: TRAIL DRIVE

Just after dark two nights later, Johnny was sitting in the dark doorway of one of the Bar 33 line camps, smoking. The night was quiet about him, the only sounds were those his saddled pony made cropping the grass out in the dark. Johnny had been there an hour, during which he had smoked eight cigarettes. Lately he had found himself restless and impatient, and time and again he had to put a check on his temper, which had always been quick. Deep within him, he knew why he was edgy, but he wouldn’t admit it. Right now he was fuming inwardly at Turk and Hank’s tardiness, forgetting the fact that the Running W was many miles from here and that they would have to be careful in covering their movements.

When he heard the sound of approaching riders, he faded back into the doorway, drawing his gun. Then Hank’s low and cautious whistle came to him, and he stepped out to meet them.

“Get it?” he asked Hank.

Turk answered instead. “Sure. And he’s lame now. What luck did you have?”

“They’re spread out below us right now, without a man ridin’ herd.”

“Then let’s get to work,” Hank said briefly.

It was a horse branded Running W that Johnny had referred to. The three of them mounted, hazed the extra horses and the lame one ahead of them, and rode the short distance down to the flat. Over the rolling, tilting upland of grass, a big herd of Bar 33 cattle were grazing, some of them bedded down.

Out of this bunch they cut a hundred and fifty head and then turned and pushed east toward the mountains. The lame Running W gelding, along with the three other ponies, was pushed in with the cattle.

It was Turk giving orders now, for he knew every one of these devious trails and could pick out the few water holes they would need on their way over the Calicoes. At dawn next morning, they paused to let the herd drink at one of the high mountain springs.

Before they pushed on toward the pass in the gaunt peaks, the gelding was cut out and left behind. He seemed willing to drop out, for he was limping badly. Johnny reasoned that he would rest here by the spring until hunger drove him down on the flats.

All that day they prodded the cattle into the face of a gathering storm that broke in midafternoon, half blinding them with sleet and hail and rain. For an hour they worked furiously to keep the cattle headed up the mountains into the storm, and just when the exhaustion of their ponies was ready to defeat them, the rain slacked off into a steady drizzle.

His eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, Turk rode back to Johnny, who was riding drag. Both of them were drenched, even through their slickers, and the cold, driving wind that poured down from the peaks had their lips blue.

“It’ll be dark before we make the pass. You want to try it?”

“If we let these critters stop, dynamite couldn’t keep ’em from goin’ back,” Johnny said. He raised his eyes to the sky, which seemed almost low enough to touch. They were far above timber line now in the boulder fields of the peaks, and all nature here seemed merciless, bent on breaking them. He shouted into the wind, “Can we do it, Turk?”

“Sure. You’ll lose some of the stuff, likely, and be pretty doggoned miserable, but we can do it.”

“All right. Let’s change ponies.”

They took turns cutting fresh mounts out and dropping back to saddle; the herd was not allowed to stop.

As night settled down on them, they knew they were in for it. The rain held on, increasing the misery of man and beast. A dozen times that night, the cattle were on the verge of stampeding. Every time they rounded a fresh bend in this tortuous trail and the wind drove at them with the force of padded hammers, Johnny and Hank were driven to a fury of activity. Johnny never knew where they were going, what the country looked like, or if Turk was lost. It was his job and Hank’s to keep the herd moving—and somehow they did it.

Toward morning the wind died down and the rain lifted a little so that Johnny almost drowsed off in the saddle. He could tell by the ease with which his horse walked and by the increased pace of the cattle that they were through the pass and on the gentle downslope of the eastern side of the Calicoes.

Dawn broke cold and clear, and in another hour they reached timber line. Already behind them, the thunderheads were gathering for a new downpour. When they got to the green belt of trees, they conferred and decided to rest the cattle and let them graze on the hardy upland bunchgrass if they could. Pursuit was hardly probable, since a fresh storm would be almost certain to blot out the tracks.

A half day of sleep and dry clothes lifted their spirits. At noon, after a quick lunch, they got the cattle moving again. Turk, with the experience of many such drives behind him, took them down the slope through the thick timber until, when dark fell, they were in the foothills.

Warms, Turk said, was off several miles to the right. They were heading for the railway station and stock pens that Turk had used in his rustling days. A crooked agent, no brand inspector, and a split of the rustled beef would allow them to dispose of it without so much as a trace to indicate where it had gone.

Close to midnight, they saw the lights of the way station. Turk had ridden ahead, to confer with the agent. When Johnny and Hank arrived with the beef, the pens were open, ready to receive it.

“There’ll be a train out of Warms tomorrow morning,” Turk informed them. “It’ll pick the stuff up.” He grinned up at Johnny. “I signed Leach Wigran’s name on the waybill. That all right?”

Johnny nodded. Next morning, in the mining town of Warms, Johnny opened an account at the Warms bank in the name of Leach Wigran. He arranged for the deposit of the money from the sale of the cattle shipment. If Fitz got curious and searched for his herd, Leach Wigran’s name would be dark with guilt.

A few moments later he joined Hank and Turk on the main four corners. They looked at each other and smiled. They each needed a shave, clean clothes, and rest. Johnny, in spite of his bone-weariness, felt something driving in him that would not let him rest. His eyes were hard and mocking, as he said to Turk, “You work for what you get in this rustling business, Turk. I didn’t know that.”

“Where now?” Hank asked.

“Cosmos. This has only begun.”

In place of Barney, who had been segundo under Carmody, Fitz had appointed a silent, surly puncher named Art Bodan, who was years younger than he looked. Fitz didn’t know much about him except that Carmody said he was to be trusted.

So that morning, when Bodan had finished his story in Fitz’s office, the major regarded him with some curiosity and a little suspicion.

“You say you found the horse down on the flat, grazing. How do you know he was the one whose track you saw?”

“I know,” Bodan said stubbornly. “Rain or no rain. That’s the same horse. He’s not only crippled in the same foot, but the other tracks tally.” He paused, his dark, smooth-shaven face sullen. “You can’t track an animal for ten miles without you learn somethin’ about his tracks, Major.”

Fitz said nothing for the moment, his face scowling and unpleasant to look at.

“Running W. It couldn’t be a changed brand, could it?”

“Come out and look for yourself.”

“I’ll do that,” Fitz said, and rose.

Outside, he paused at the corral while Bodan cut out the lame gelding and led him over to Fitz, turning him so that Fitz could investigate the brand.

“That’s real, all right,” Fitz said. He straightened up. “You’re not to say anything about this, of course.”

“Three of the men know it a’ready.”

“Saddle up my bay,” Fitz said, and turned to the house.

An hour later, he rode into the main street of Cosmos and dismounted at Baily Blue’s office. He did not need to cover up his visits now, since it was known that, as a victim of rustlers, he had legitimate business with the sheriff. Blue was not in, but Fitz sat down and smoked his pipe, staring thoughtfully out the window.

When Baily finally did come in, “Is Leach in town?” Fitz asked. When Baily nodded Fitz said, “Bring him here.”

Blue’s eyebrows lifted. “That ain’t very cautious, Fitz.”

“Bring him here. And do it in a hurry.”

Blue vanished; ten minutes later he was back with the hulking Wigran in tow. Leach Wigran seldom talked to the major, never recognized him in public, and that Blue should call him to an open conference with Fitz was a surprise to him. His face, almost hidden by that thick shovel beard, showed a surprise which he could not entirely disguise.

“Sit down,” Fitz said abruptly, when the door was shut.

Leach sat down facing him, holding his hat in his hand. Blue leaned on the desk, watching.

“This morning Bodan, my segundo, came in with the news that I’ve been rustled of a hundred and fifty head of cattle. He cut for sign and found where they’d been driven up the Calicoes. The rain had washed away the sign there, but he saw enough to know that whoever stole those cattle had a lame horse. That horse was finally turned loose, up by a spring in the Calicoes, and it drifted down to my range.” He leaned forward and regarded Leach with careful eyes. “We found the horse. It was branded Running W, Leach.”

Leach stopped fiddling with his hat, his great hands still. “Running W?” he echoed. “There’s some mistake. We’re missin’ no horses.”

“I saw it, and it’s branded Running W,” Fitz said sharply.

“Then somebody stole it.”

“Where’ve you been these last four nights?” Fitz asked him coldly.

“Why—a couple of ’em I reckon I was here in Cosmos.”

“Your men were—where?”

Slowly, Leach heaved himself to his feet and regarded Fitz with hot eyes. “So you think I took ’em, Fitz?”

“I didn’t say so. I want to know who did.”

“I dunno. But I know I didn’t and none of my men did. I can account for the whole crew.”

Fitz said nothing, and Leach, after holding his gaze for several seconds, turned to Baily Blue, as if for help. Blue, however, kept his face carefully blank.

And then Leach started to get red. “Fitz,” he said hotly, “I’ve danced to your tune for two years now. I’ve had many a chance to hang the deadwood on you, but I’ve not been a hog. I’ve kept in line and taken your orders, and I aim to from now on.”

“Then where’d the horse come from?” Fitz said gently. “He was being ridden by the men who took that beef.”

“I tell you he could have been stole!”

“By whom, then?” Fitz drawled. Now his voice got ugly. “When I hired you, Leach, you promised me that you’d keep these small rustlers in order, and have them let me alone. Apparently”—and here his voice was dry, thrusting—“you’re losing your ability to keep on top in this county, Leach. Maybe somebody has an idea that you’ve got a little soft, a little easy. What do you think?”

“I’d like to see ’em claim it!” Leach said uglily.

“What do you call this, then? They stole a herd of my cattle and put the blame on you. Either that, or your men think you’re soft, too. Do they?”

Leach took a shuffling step toward Fitz, his face dark with anger. “They do what I tell ’em!” he said thickly. “They aren’t crossin’ me. They know it’d be worth their life if they did.”

“Then who is? These smalltime rustlers you thought you could kick around?”

“I still can!”

Fitz rose now. He came scarcely to Leach’s shoulder, but there was a look of hard and implacable command in his eyes and on his face that told Blue that Fitz was the stronger man, always had been, always would be.

“Leach,” Fitz said mildly, “I can’t use a second-rater. I’ve made money for you, and I’ll make more. But not if you can’t keep your men in line. If you’re through, get out while you still have a chance. If you aren’t licked, then straighten this out. Get back my cattle for me and see that the man responsible is punished.” He paused. “And Leach, if you’re considering stepping into my shoes, don’t. I’ve taken care of a dozen like you in my day, and it wasn’t any trouble—only a little messy.”

He stepped past Leach and out the door, closing it gently behind him. For a long minute, Leach stood in the middle of the floor, clenching and unclenching his fists, his face hard and savage and entirely readable.

Blue shifted his weight on the desk and cleared his throat.

“Don’t get any ideas, Leach,” he said softly.

Leach looked at him now, and there was bewilderment in his eyes. “But I ain’t. I know when I’m well off. But I don’t have any idea who took them cattle, not a one.”

“Find out.”

“I aim to.”

Blue smiled faintly. “But don’t ever get any ideas about Fitz, Leach. He goes with good people here. His credit is good, he’s polite, the decent women like him, and he acts considerable like a dude sometimes. But don’t let that fool you.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Out there at the Bar 33, he hasn’t got what you’d rightly call a crew of punchers. Once, just for fun, I added up how much reward money I’d collect if I’d take that Bar 33 crew, nail ’em up in a boxcar, and ship ’em back to where they were wanted. The reward money came to over a hundred thousand dollars.”

Leach was listening, his eyes veiled.

“Fitz sends for them. He gives them protection, work, and good wages, until things have cooled off for them. Nobody knows their right names except him—and sometimes me. They ain’t common gun fighters, Leach—they’re killers. Tested, wanted, gun-slick, hair-trigger killers. So don’t get any ideas. And if I was you, I’d see that them cattle was back at the Bar 33 in pretty short order.”

“I will.”

When Leach stepped out onto the street, he was considerably chastened—and he was angry, too. He knew that what Baily Blue told him about Fitz was true. Without ever raising his voice, Fitz could put more genuine fear into Leach than an army of ordinary men with guns.

Leach went into the bar at Prince’s Keno Parlor and downed a stiff drink. Then he walked to the gambling-tables, where four of his men were playing an idle hand of poker.

“Come along,” he told them.

One puncher, young, tall, with several days’ growth of reddish stubble on his face, threw down his cards and looked up at Leach. “More work?”

Leach nodded grimly. “Plenty, Mick.”