CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A COCKFIGHT HAD just ended, and the cook was removing gaffs from the loser’s spurs. “He’ll be the chicken with my dumplings tonight,” he said as he picked up the dead rooster. As betting money exchanged hands, Ben Baggett was walking from his cabin toward the pavilion.
He’d called a meeting, and all hands were gathering. Walking at his side was Top Wilson.
“As you know, Top’s been on the trail for a good spell, riding both sides of the Red River. And he’s returned with news of a number of new herds and an agreement with trail drivers who say they’ll gladly purchase every head we can gather.
“This’ll be our biggest operation and will require more planning. There’ll be more miles of traveling, a need for more provisions, and more men. We’ll be sending out three groups of four this time. The payday’s gonna make you think Christmas done come early.”
A buzz rolled through the gathering. A few even applauded.
The men were unaware that Wilson, now smiling broadly, had been harshly scolded by the boss after the last raid when only eighteen underfed cattle had been stolen. His recent scouting trip had been motivated by the urgent need to return to Ben’s good graces.
Baggett pulled a paper from his shirt pocket and read the list of those picked for the three groups. Will Darby’s name was on it.
“I hope the wages are what he’s promising,” he said as he and Bootsy walked from the meeting.
Disappointed that his name hadn’t been called, Bootsy kicked at the dirt. “Whatever it’ll be, none will find its way into my pockets. I’d give my left eye—if I still had it—to be making that ride.”
“It’ll be my last one,” Will said.
“Why’s that?”
“I’m just weary of not feeling right about what it is we do. This payday and what I’ve got saved will be my moving-on money.”
Bootsy shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t be expecting no parade when you take your leave,” he said. “I ain’t aware of many folks who quit on the old man without regret and a sizable amount of grief.”
Again, Will knew his friend was issuing a warning. “I’ll be so far gone once he knows it, he’ll not be able to do anything about it,” he said. “I’ve thought hard on it of late, and it’s the right thing for me to be doing.”
Bootsy finally smiled. “A woman figure into your thinking?”
Darby chose to ignore the question, but asked that their conversation be kept a secret.
THE MORNING THEY were to leave, the men rose before dawn for breakfast, then filled their saddlebags with still-warm biscuits, muffins, and cold-water corn bread. A packhorse had been loaded with canned goods, coffee, chewing tobacco, and surprise sacks of stick candy.
Baggett stood, watching as the men assembled. From the corral, Top Wilson came riding toward the gathering. “There’ll be no need for a map this trip,” the boss said. “He’ll be leading your way.”
They rode for three days, mostly along the northern bank of the river. There had been little conversation, even when they bedded down in the evenings. Will made a conscious effort to avoid Wilson.
After breaking camp on the fourth morning, Top led the men farther north into Indian Territory. Shortly before noon they approached a shallow valley where tepees were lined in carefully plotted rows. From a distance, they could see women tending small cooking fires while children played. The men sat in groups, watching youngsters run footraces.
Nearby, cattle roamed freely, grazing.
“Wasn’t ever no mention made of dealing with Injuns,” one of the cowboys said as he rode next to Wilson.
Top returned his spyglass to its case. “They’re Comanches who’ve fled the reservation,” he said. “Their herd has grown since I was last here, so I suspect they’re stealing on a regular basis. All we’ll be doing is taking back what don’t belong to them in the first place.”
“They’ll not likely give the cattle up without a fight.”
The leader ignored the observation.
Later, there was no campfire for brewing coffee or warming beans. The only plan Wilson had provided was that they would wait until deep night, then approach the herd from the back side and drive them toward the river. It was, he explained, his reason for keeping the three groups intact. “Once we’re done here,” he said, “we’ll split up and go our separate ways. But this one’s gonna require all hands.”
Darby approached the leader when he was alone. “You right sure you’ve thought this out?” he said. “You know there’s a good chance for bloodshed if we don’t get away quickly.”
“So be it,” Top said. “That’s what we’re carrying firearms for.”
“Was Mr. Baggett told of this plan?”
“All the boss wants is cattle rustled and money made. The details don’t worry him,” Top said. “Why, you feeling scared?”
Will slowly shook his head. “Stealing is one thing,” he said. “Risking more than makes good sense is something else altogether.”
“Feel free to turn tail and be on your way if it’s your choice,” Top said. “Wouldn’t surprise me none.”
For a fleeting moment, Darby considered doing just that. But a strange sense of loyalty to a group of men he hardly knew overruled the idea. If fighting did break out, every man would be needed.
He was through deserting.
LED BY WILSON, they made a wide single-file loop around the Comanche village. Across Top’s lap lay his Winchester. There was no moon, and clouds covered the stars, so the going was slow. Only when they were finally in place was the signal given to light the torches and begin moving the cattle.
In a matter of seconds, young braves were pouring from the tepees, rifles pointed in the direction of the rustlers. A shot whistled past Darby’s head as he slapped his rope against his thigh and yelled in an effort to get the cattle moving. Nearby, he heard a loud thud followed by a pained scream. A riderless horse ran past.
The herd began to move swiftly away from the camp. The Comanches hurried to their ponies and gave chase as the rustlers began returning fire. One of the pursuing ponies stopped and reared on its hind legs, then fell to the ground after being struck by a bullet. Its rider lay nearby, writhing in pain.
The chase finally ended when the cattle were herded across a shallow spot in the river. Top then ordered his men to form a line, take a knee, and begin firing on the approaching Comanches. “If you kill them every one, it won’t bother me,” he shouted.
The gunfight lasted only a few minutes before the Indians, short of ammunition, turned away.
When things quieted, the tired herd returned to the shallows to drink as Wilson raised his arms in celebration. Then he surveyed the damage. Two of the men had not made it across the river, likely shot dead or badly injured and now at the mercy of their captors. Another, a man named Rooster Glover, sat nearby, blood oozing from a hole in his shoulder. One horse limped badly from a bullet wound to his stomach and would have to be put down.
“Might near like being on the battlefield,” Wilson said. “There’s no use attempting to rescue those left behind on the other side of the river. We’ll just continue on shorthanded. It’s only a half day’s ride to where we’re to meet up with the buyers.”
He looked out on the resting cattle and started counting aloud. “The bossman will be pleased,” he said. “Mighty pleased.”
One of the others had bandaged Glover’s shoulder and was giving him water when Top approached. “I fear your involvement on this trip is done,” he said. “I’m sorry for your suffering. Reckon you can make it back to Palo Duro on your own?”
Rooster, feeling faint, nodded.
“Somebody help load up his saddlebag for him,” Wilson said. “Then we’ll be on our way before our savage friends decide to return.” He walked away and resumed counting the cattle.
Darby glared at him and whispered to no one in particular, “He’s gone crazier than an outhouse rat.”
BEN BAGGETT WAS returning from his cave hideaway, where he’d been checking on the strongbox that contained his fortune, when he saw the horse and rider slowly making their way into the compound. Moving closer, he saw that it was Glover, badly hurt and delirious, and called out to the cook for help.
They carried the wounded rider inside the nearest cabin and bathed his feverish face with cool towels. After peeling away the bloody bandage, the cook immediately began boiling water and disinfecting one of his kitchen knives. “We need to get the bullet out before more infection sets in,” he said. “He’s also badly in need of water.”
Rooster rolled his head and mumbled incoherently as the surgery was performed, whiskey was poured onto the wound, and a fresh bandage was taped in place.
It was hours before he regained consciousness and was able to speak.
“What was it caused this?” Baggett asked several times before getting a faint, rambling answer.
Glover described the raid on the Comanche village and the violence that had erupted. Two men and one good horse had died.
Baggett picked up a canteen and gave him another sip of water. “Was this foolheartedness Top Wilson’s doing? Is he responsible for gettin’ my men killed and you lying here shot?”
Rooster weakly nodded.
Baggett threw the canteen against the wall and cursed. When he finally calmed down, he leaned close to Rooster again. “Were they able to get the cattle?”
Glover was in and out of consciousness through the night as the cook remained by his side. His fever continued to rise, having soaked his clothes in sweat by the time Baggett returned to check on him.
“Does it look like he’ll make it?”
“Afraid not,” the cook said. “I fear we’ll soon be doing grave digging.”
Two hours later Rooster Glover let out a single deep sigh and died.
WITH THE RANKS depleted and the men showing a lack of enthusiasm, Wilson chose to forgo his plan to split into smaller raiding parties. Fearing that desertion might be on the minds of some, he felt it would be best to keep watch on everyone.
Continuing eastward, they stole cattle from two small ranches without incident and made their sales. For Wilson, the rustling of the smaller herds lacked the thrill he’d felt while battling the Indians, and he missed it. His men, meanwhile, only missed the comfort of their own beds back in the canyon.
His behavior became increasingly erratic. One evening as they were making camp, he became irritated when one of the hands was slow gathering wood for a fire, and he slapped him across the face. He launched into lengthy tirades, waving his pistol in the air and criticizing virtually everyone for the most minor shortcomings. When the rest of the men tried to sleep, Wilson nervously paced about, mumbling to himself.
He made no mention of it, but it was obvious that he was increasingly worried about the reception he would receive from Ben Baggett when they returned home. The pouch full of money earned from the cattle sales, he feared, would not be enough to overcome the fact he’d not told his boss of his misguided plan to rustle cattle from the Indians. Nor would it justify the needless deaths of his men. And now around him, there was a near revolt of those who had long been faithful.
Wilson realized that his hope of one day assuming responsibility for Baggett’s cattle business was no more than a shattered dream. And the thought angered him.
In his paranoid state, he weighed his options and decided on a new plan. He would take the money earned from the cattle sales and disappear, riding away until he felt he would be safe from the reach and wrath of Ben Baggett.