TROUBLE ON THE TRAIL
Dag saw the silhouette of a man rise up from the ground, holding a rifle in his hands. The man brought the rifle up to his shoulder.
“Horton,” Dag yelled.
Horton turned in surprise and swung his rifle toward Dag.
“Drop it,” Dag yelled.
The man fired straight at Dag, without hesitation. Dag ducked even more and heard the bullet sizzle the air like an angry hornet.
Dag lined up the rear buckhorn sight with the front blade sight and squeezed the trigger. The butt of his rifle bucked against his shoulder. . . .
THE IMMORTAL COWBOY
This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cowboy.” His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.
True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.
In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling, allowing me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?
It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.
It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.
—
Chapter 1
There it was again, that black pit in his gut, roiling with a nameless fear. It happened every morning when Jimmy shook him awake, bringing him out of the dark dreams, in which he was always riding in an unknown land, chasing after senseless cows in every shape and color imaginable, and being chased by nameless men with mangled, twisted features that defied identification. Men with guns and knives riding dragon horses with scales and talons, calling out his name, hunting him down to take away his life, to take away his soul.
“Come on, Dag,” Jimmy said in his slow, deep drawl. “Horses are under saddle and the coffeepot’s burpin’ like a fartin’ colt.”
“I’m awake, Jimmy. It’s my bones that are still gettin’ shut-eye.”
“You ain’t gonna like sunrise, Dag. The sky, I swear, is bloodred.”
Felix Dagstaff had been plagued by bad weather all spring. It had been the wettest he had seen since coming to Texas fifteen years before. It was hard enough getting a herd together in rugged country, without battling water, mud, lightning, and the flurries of flash floods that roared through Palo Duro Canyon.
Dag cursed softly as he sat up, then shoved the blanket into a puddle of wool at his feet. When he stood up, both of his knees cracked, and a needling pain shot through cartilage and bone. The knees would be all right after he walked a few steps, but they stiffened up on him every time he sat or lay down for a spell.
He felt the chill right away. A fresh breeze was blowing out of the northwest, and when he turned to the east, he saw the crimson sky Jimmy Gough had warned him about. The horizon over toward Quitaque glowed like the coals in a banked furnace. It was cloudless yonder and Vulcan’s flames spread as far as the eye could see from horizon to horizon, north to south.
“Damned red sky in morning,” Dag muttered as he walked toward the smell of coffee and the blazing fire Jimmy had made with green mesquite and whatever dry wood he had been able to find the night before.
Gough stood silhouetted against the fire, tall and lean as a buggy whip, his battered hat the only indication that he was human and not a torn-down split-rail fence. Jimmy had a steaming tin cup in his hand, and the vapors floated up to his face like steam rising from a creek on a brisk morning.
“Here’s your cup,” Gough said, stretching out a long, lanky arm.
Dag took the tin cup and poured coffee into it, almost to the brim. He liked his coffee hot and strong. They always used Arbuckle’s, which had a cinnamon stick in it. He didn’t know if he could taste the faint cinnamon flavor, but he imagined he could, and that was good enough.
“I saw mares’ tails in the sky yesterday evenin’,” Gough said.
“Yeah, I saw ’em too. Won’t rain today, though.”
“No, not today. Might be a gully washer tonight, though.”
“You can damned nigh bet on it, Jimmy.” The coffee burned Dag’s mouth and warmed his throat and stomach. The fire helped lessen the hurt in his knee joints. He flexed his legs, pumping each up and down in place. The joints no longer creaked, anyway. One knee felt like it was going to give out before the day was done, however. “Coffee’s right bad, Jimmy. What’d you make it with, horse apples? Tastes like it’s got some tar mixed in it.”
“You like it strong, Dag. You can float a ten-penny nail in this batch.”
“Any sign of Little Jake?” The minute he asked, Dag knew he was whistling in the wind. If Little Jake had ridden in last night, he’d be out there with him and Jimmy, cracking his lame old jokes.
“Nary,” Gough said. “Maybe he went on home.”
Dag blew on his coffee, drank a sip. It was still boiling hot.
“No, not Little Jake. He don’t even go home to get a whuppin’ no more. He cut them apron strings last year.”
“Yeah, the ornery rascal,” Jimmy said. “He done made our bunkhouse his kip. The boys keep runnin’ him off, but he turns up every evenin’, just the same.”
Little Jake was a homeless boy who wandered from ranch to ranch, looking for work, looking for his mother. He was bewildered most of the time and some of the hands thought he was addled. But he was a hard worker and good with cattle. He was better with cattle than he was with people, Dag thought, even though he was fond of the boy. He felt sorry for the boy, too.
