skittish, balking at every dark shape, sidestepping clumps of brush and rock outcroppings as if the objects were alive and had teeth and fangs. Some miles from the herd of cattle they had left behind, Flagg reined up and held a hand up to stop the others. When they rode alongside, he finally spoke, in a solemn whisper.
“Right over yonder, beyond that next rise,” he said, “is a watering hole. That’s where we ought to find some outlaws.”
“Outlaws?” Paco said.
“Wild cattle with no brands.”
Paco nodded in understanding.
“Now this is dangerous work, boys. And you’re going to have to shake out them ropes. I want to go down there and rope at least four head, if we can. Then we’ll check for brands. Chase ’em if you have to.”
“How many head do you figure are at that watering hole?” Don Horton asked.
“There’s always a dozen or so,” Flagg said.
“Be hard to rope in the dark like this,” Paco Noriega said. He noticed that Flagg, Horton, and Chavez had three or four separate ropes tied to their saddles. He and Mendoza only had one rope apiece.
Flagg looked up, pointed to the nearly full moon. There were a few clouds in the sky, but there were scattered balls of white fluff, and none were near the moon at the moment.
“After we rope some and check for brands, we’ll lead those we catch back to the herd, then go to another place for more. We’ll be at this all night, boys. Any questions?”
“What’s dangerous about it?” Paco asked.
“Some of these steers have been wild for a long time. They’ll fight if they’re cornered. Those long horns aren’t just on their heads for decoration. They can gore you clean through the gut without you ever seeing it coming. Just be careful, all right?”
The others nodded.
“Now,” Flagg said, “we’ll split up and fan out, circle the watering hole. I’ll go in and rope the first one. The others may hold just out of plain curiosity. You all come in fast with your loops built and start snaring cattle like they was catfish in a barrel.”
Flagg turned his horse and circled the rise to the left. He motioned for Don and Manny to go to the right. The two young Mexicans followed Flagg, spreading out, watching him closely.
The small pond—what many in that part of the country called a stock tank, or a tank—looked like a rippled mirror in the moonlight. At its edges, dark shapes loomed as indiscernible objects, casting shadows along the edge of the water. There were soft sucking sounds and small splashing noises that drowned out the sawing, high-pitched drone of crickets and the throaty moans of bullfrogs.
Flagg reined his horse to turn it, then prodded its flank with his left spur. The horse, trained to do this, sidled down the slope toward the tank, its hooves falling soft on the ground. Flagg halted the horse when he was about fifteen feet from the edge of the water.
He waited. One cow lifted its head, its curved horns gleaming a velvety black in the moonlight. Flagg swung the rope, letting the loop out, then sailed it toward the set of horns jutting up above the hulks of the other cows. The rope made a low whirring sound and then dropped perfectly over the horns. Flagg jerked out the slack, wound part of rope around his saddle horn, pulled in hard on the reins, and dug in his spurs to both flanks of his horse. The horse backed up, pulling the cow’s head sideways until the animal turned and followed the path of least resistance. The other cattle, a dozen or so, looked up, and there was a phalanx of horns silhouetted against the reflective water of the pond. Riders rode in from two directions, swinging their loops overhead.
The pond churned as hooves splashed along the edge. Ripples marred the mirrored surface and frogs leaped into the water with soggy plops. The crickets went silent and the roped cows fought to get free of the loops around their horns, shaking their heads and bucking, kicking their hind legs while in the air.
“Bunch ’em up,” Flagg said, dragging his cow toward one that was cavorting like some galvanized being at the end of Horton’s rope.
The others rode toward Flagg, pulling their catches behind them.
“Pack ’em close,” Flagg said.
Cattle were herd animals and he knew that these would calm down if they could feel their own kind near. When the cows were lined up, he dismounted. His horse backed up, to keep the rope taut, as it had been trained to do. Flagg ran his hands over the rumps of the cows, feeling for brands. He pushed and prodded their rear ends in order to take advantage of the moon and starlight.
“No brands,” he said. “Outlaws.”
“Those others didn’t run far,” Horton said.
“They’re all bunched up yonder starin’ down here at us.”
“I know,” Flagg said. “Tie these up, hobble ’em good, and we’ll go after the others. I think they’re all part of a wild bunch.”
The men worked quickly, securing the cattle so that they could not run away. Then, as Flagg motioned them into a pincer formation, they rode a wide circle around those cows that had escaped. As they drew near from three sides, however, one of the cows bolted and the others quickly followed.
“After ’em,” Flagg shouted and the riders streamed after the fleeing cattle, shaking out fresh ropes. Horton and Chavez had given the young Mexicans an extra rope each.
The cattle started to run almost immediately. The riders fanned out as the cattle did and each man tracked down a cow, their horses galloping over the eerie landscape after shadows.
The cows knew every trick. They dodged, backtracked, circled, stood their ground, and then bolted. But, one by one, each rider lassoed the cows they chased and brought them under submission. They all headed back to the cows they had left tied up, where Flagg again checked for brands. None of the cattle had markings on their ears or bodies and he grunted with satisfaction.
“Let’s lead these back, then hit another tank,” Flagg said. “What we’ll do, though, is track to a point ahead of the main herd. Or nearbouts.”
“Who will watch them?” Paco asked, as he rode alongside Flagg, leading two cows, as did the others.
“We’ll tie ’em up tonight, brand them in the morning when the herd catches up. By then, they will stay with the herd.”
“Just hogtie them?” Ricardo wanted to know.
“We’ll hobble them. I’ll leave one of you to watch over ’em. But we’ll wait here for a while, then move slowly. Those cattle that scattered should pick our trail and follow us. We won’t even have to rope ’em.”
“I hope you have more ropes,” Ricardo said.
“Oh, we have plenty of rope, more than you really want,
“
“I know,” Flagg said in Spanish. “But you could be one of my sons.”
“Do you have sons?”
“Nope. Kids get on my nerves.”
After that, Ricardo rode with his friend, Paco, keeping his distance from Flagg.
As Flagg had said, some of the scattered cows began to follow them on their slow course back in the direction of the trail drive. Flagg knew they would stay with the others once he bedded them down for the night.
He decided to leave Horton to watch over those first cows, while he and the others rode back to the chuck wagon to pick up more lariats. The chuck wagon, besides carrying cooking utensils and food, served as a supply wagon, with boxes of horseshoes, nails, extra wood to repair broken wheels, hubs, rope, and medicines. The wagon was, Flagg knew, a necessary component to any long trail drive.
“Let’s count head,” Flagg said, as he finished hobbling the lead cow. They had brought the cattle next to a small creek, and tied two head to different trees. There were grass and water for the small bunch, and they could be reached later on, in the morning, when it came time to brand the outlaws and shunt them into the main
