The Palo Duro Trail

one another as if trying to flee. His heart seemed like a lump in his throat as he rode toward the eerie sound of war songs. So far, he had heard no more shots, but he dreaded the possibility. It would not take much now to throw the cattle herd into a panic and start them running in every direction.

He could not see much, but he kept riding, hunching over the saddle horn as if he were in a race, keeping a low profile, for when the shooting started, any stray bullet or ball could find him in the darkness.

Then he saw a commotion up ahead, on the other side of the herd. Horses raced back and forth and beyond; a stream of Comanche ponies streaked along in a wide circle as if to surround the cowhands. It was a fine display of horsemanship that he could not help but admire, even though he knew he was watching a powerful enemy that could kill them all if their numbers were great enough.

He heard the nighthawks yelling now, hurling insults at the Comanche.

“Get on outta here.”

“Yo, you red bastards.”

“You sons of bitches, come on.”

Dag knew what the Comanche plan was now. As he drew closer, he saw that they were riding just out of range, lifting their bows over their heads, brandishing their lances, taunting the cowhands to shoot. Well, he thought, the hands were smart enough to figure it out and he wondered who the men were who rode herd that night. He was damned proud of them for holding their fire. And he was a little bit relieved that the Comanches evidently had no pistols or rifles.

Flagg had been smart to double the herders who were on watch. He glanced at the tail end of the herd and saw two riders. That was smart too because the Comanches could very well reverse course and run off some of those cattle while the ones at the head of the herd provided a distraction.

He waved at the riders so that they would not think he was a Comanche, and continued toward the head of the herd, where the Indians were circling. He passed two nighthawks in the dark. He slowed his horse to a walk, then halted for a moment.

“That you, Dag?”

“Yeah, hold your positions.”

“Yes, sir. Them Comanch’ just started in on us.”

“Skip, that you?”

“Yep. Me’n Mendoza got this flank.” Skip Hughes rode for Matlee, but he had worked on the D Slash a few summers ago. He had married Matlee’s sister, Lynne Ann, and that was why he had left to work for his brother-in- law. In summer, he wrote poetry and both he and his wife taught school—arithmetic, Dag thought. He didn’t know what Lynne Ann taught, but he thought it had to do with reading.

“Hold your fire unless they get right on top of you, Skip. You too, Ricardo.”

“Will do, Dag,” Skip replied and Ricardo Mendoza grunted an assent in Spanish.

Dag rode on, staring at the Comanches rounding the cattle at the head of the herd. By now the bawling was loud and the cattle even more restless. He listened for a change in pitch that would tell him they had found a leader who would run so that they could follow. Cattle were herd animals and they followed the strongest cow or, in case of a stampede, they followed the most scared, which was often the cow just in front of them.

“Spread out, spread out,” Flagg was saying. “Stay low and don’t shoot unless you can smell Injun breath.”

The Comanches kept riding back and forth, teams of them going in opposite directions. It was confusing to Dag at first, but then the Comanches changed their tactics. While one bunch was going one way, another would ride in close, as if to cut a few heads out of the herd. Then these would dart back out and another group would flash in, yelling and yipping like a pack of wild dogs.

Dag drew his pistol and backed Nero into the herd, which was milling around, bawling and snorting. He could see the fear in their roiling wide eyes as they backed away. But the horses and riders seemed to give them some comfort, as if they knew they were being protected.

All of a sudden, the war cries died out and the Comanches changed their tactics again, riding their ponies straight at the herd so that they were within rifle range. They thrust with their horses, trying to rattle the cowhands guarding the herd. They would gallop in, turn their horses on a ten-cent piece, then dash back out. Back and forth, in small groups, the Comanches taunted the white men, calling out insults in their native tongue, screaming, yelling as they drew close, only to turn their horses with their knees at the last minute, riding off, their bodies hugging the bare backs of their ponies.

“Don’t shoot,” Flagg said. “Pass the word.”

Dag heard the men pass the warning all along the herd, where nervous nighthawks with itchy fingers waited, ready to shoot, wanting to shoot, but dreading a stampede almost more than they feared the Indians.

“They sure as hell can’t keep this up all night,” Dag said.

“The hell they can’t,” Flagg said.

But the Comanches, after riding clear around the herd, as if looking for a weak spot so that they could run off a few head of cattle, finally drifted away into the darkness. It got so quiet, Dag felt as if he were in a huge room with all the air sucked out of it. A vacuum. Then the nighthawks started crooning to the cattle, riding slow to calm them down. After a while, the lowing and caterwauling died down and the herd started bedding down again.

“Whew,” Dag said.

“ ‘Whew’ is right,” Flagg said. “We almost had a real big mess here.”

“Think they’re gone for good, Jubal?”

“Hell, that was just their way of testing us. I reckon they’ll come up with another idea, right soon.”

“What do they want? Some cattle to eat?”

“No, I reckon it’s more than that. These were warriors. They want blood. We’re on what they reckon is their land and they’re going to give us hell as long as we’re here.”

“They didn’t have guns, anyway,” Dag said, holstering his pistol.

“Nope, but they probably want ours.” Flagg turned away and started issuing orders. “Those of you who ain’t tendin’ herd, get on back to the chuck wagon one at a time and don’t make no noise. We’ll keep a double guard, same shifts.”

Dag just then thought of the chuck wagon. Fingers and Jo were there, along with Jimmy and Little Jake—not much of a force if the Comanches wanted to attack and steal food. But they had ridden off to the north, in the opposite direction. Of course, he knew they could circle around. He sighed and rode gingerly past the cows around him, then turned back toward camp. He was worried.

Who are you worried about? he asked himself, silently. But he already knew the answer. Jo. He hated to think what a band of savages like the Comanches would do to her if they ever captured her alive. He shuddered. These were not good thoughts, he knew, and he tried to drive them out of his mind.

Jo walked out to meet Dag when he returned. “What happened?” she asked.

“The Comanches run off, Jo.”

“I didn’t hear any more shots.”

“Thank God. That herd would have scattered like leaves in autumn. We’d be days trackin’ ’em all down.”

“I was worried about you, Felix.”

“No need.”

“Still I worry about you.”

He swung out of the saddle. “Jo, don’t,” he said.

But she wasn’t listening, evidently. She came up to him and put a hand on his arm. “Felix, you know I care about you, don’t you?”

“I reckon.”

“Don’t you care about me?”

Dag started to squirm inside his skin. “I care about you plenty, Jo, but not that way.”

“What way?”

“You know,” he said.

“No, I don’t know.”

“Well, I can’t rightly explain it, Jo. I got to unsaddle Nero, hobble him up for the night.”

“Don’t keep running away, Felix.”