Dead Aim

The next morning they left their overnight room to ride back to the herd. They crossed on the ferry and reached the camp mid-afternoon. The men were mostly lying around trying to catch up on their sleep. Jimmy was resting in a canvas-folding chair and rose to his feet to welcome her.

“You ready for another couple hundred miles of dust and bawling, sister?”

“I am. I am. I lost ten pounds of dirt, but the cooking was not as good as yours.”

“We missed you, too.”

“Well, I am back to help.”

One of the hands came to take their horses.

She thanked him and asked what Jimmy had for supper.

“Irish stew.”

“Well your helper is back and I may live to make it to Abilene.”

“I am sure planning to dance with you when we get there.”

“We will do that, Jimmy. Maybe have a highland fling.”

“That suit you, boss?”

“Fine. I’ll be that glad to get there myself.”

Jan gave him a shove. “Better get our bedrolls . . . we’ll be up in a few hours.”

Long left laughing, recovered their big bedroll, and they headed to a secure place nearby to spread it out for the night. The day off had been fun, but she was a treat for him to be around all the time.

Making ten to twelve miles a day on an average with the herd was his goal. That gave the steers enough time to eat the new rich grass, which was slicking them out as they went north. When a big steer reached way back to lick an itchy spot and left a shiny circle in his new hair, it was gaining weight. Pounds were what they sold at Abilene. Larger and fuller the steers were the more they brought up there. New feed was popping up fast now with the passing showers and warmer, longer days. No severe weather had hatched since they left home.

Springtime on the plains could sweep some powerful storms armed with tornadoes, scattering cattle herds all over or stampeding them off a bluff to their death, and injuring hundreds of head.

The ex–Texas Ranger Charlie Goodnight had used a plan he had in some bad storms that swept his herds the year before and it saved them. He’d shared his plan with others when he got up to Kansas and, over the winter, his plan “to get them moving” swept all over Texas.

He and Harp had gone over the plan with all his lead men. In advance of such a storm the person in charge gets all hands mounted and the cattle moving in a trot, forming a chain behind the lead steer. If this operation can be started soon enough, there is no stampede, but Long knew it would have to be sheer hell for all the men involved at keeping the cattle together while being battered by the raging storm.

Harp and Long knew that most of such storms happened at the end of the day, or later, sweeping the plains at night. Running beside cattle guided by lightning strikes was damn dangerous. A horse could go down or the rider could be struck by that lightning. When Long pulled the covers up that evening . . . the entire notion made his belly cramp. Lord save us from that.

Each morning Jan helped Jimmy and the boys serve breakfast, then she would ride with the herders or go with the chuck wagon to the next site. He checked his rifle loads, shoved it back in the scabbard, and left for that afternoon’s site in a short lope.

They worked through and around the hills of the southern Indian Territory and then the lands of the Cherokee Strip, that wide band of rolling prairie given to his father’s people that spanned the top of the territory. He had no idea where his father was killed, but the lush bluestem grass was a cattleman’s dream. And the mileage left was soon down to two weeks. That was after they crossed the lot less threatening Arkansas River than the first crossing they made two years before in the Indian Territory west of Fort Smith. Back then there was lots more current and the water higher.

In Wichita saloons and doves lined the muddy ruts the cattle rumbled over. The girls were challenging the cowboys to stop and visit them. Skirt in hands, some ran alongside the cowboys on horseback who were trying to keep the longhorns in the herd. They would shout “Stop and love me!”

One shouted back, “Darling, I’ll be back in two weeks and have money. Save it for me.”

Long was chuckling as he pushed some more steers back to the herd. That boy probably would be back, too. He swung the Comanche pony after another breaking stray and soon had him back in the fold. Damn steers must not like crossing into Kansas. He did. They were that much closer.

There were cattle buyers in their camp that evening. They did that last year. Came to try to buy their cattle at less than market prices . . . told them big tales of being swamped with cattle at Abilene and a bottle neck was holding it all up. One even said the Mississippi River Railroad Bridge was down and wouldn’t be fixed for years.

Harp was not budging. He thanked them for coming, refused a free bottle of whiskey, and that was that. Before they rode away they told him he’d be begging to take a lower price when he found out the truth about the market.

That night in the bedroll, Jan was upset by their words.

“They’re liars. They want our cattle and they will resell them for twenty more than they paid us.”

“Good. Kiss me and I will forget them.”

“Darling, that is easy.”

He loved having her along. Damn he wished he’d found her a long time ago.