“I ain’t runnin’ from nothin’, Jo.”
She laughed. “Like a rabbit,” she said. “I’ll help you unsaddle Nero.”
“Jo, I don’t need no help.” He paused, softening. “But you can tag along if you like.”
“I like,” she said and squeezed his arm with her hand.
They walked back from the remuda together. Dag’s thoughts raced. He felt all mixed up. Truth was, he liked Jo’s company. And he admitted to himself that he was flattered by her interest in him and her attentions. She did special little things when she thought no one was paying much attention, a touch on his back or his shoulder at chow, giving him an extra spoonful of blackberry jelly or honey for his biscuits. Brief smiles and sometimes, a wink.
Now, in the darkness, he looked at her. Her mouth was like a small rose in the firelight when they got back to camp.
“You want some coffee, Felix?” she asked.
“Naw, my heart’s pumpin’ fast as it is.”
“Because of the Comanches?” she said. “Or do I do that to you?”
“Jo, you are a bold woman—that’s for danged sure.”
“You think so, Felix? Heck, I haven’t even shown you my bold side.” She laughed, but what she said tugged at his heart.
“Spare me,” he joked.
She took his arm in hers, squeezed him close to her. Fingers was sitting by the fire, smoking a last pipe before turning in. Cowhands were sprawled in a wide circle some distance from the chuck wagon, rifles at their sides, pistols close at hand. One man was snoring.
“I might take pity on you, Felix, and spare you my embarrassing boldness. I might.” She squeezed his arm again and he felt a thrilling ripple of pleasure course through him like a velvety shot of electricity.
“I’m going to turn in, Jo. Uh, thanks for walkin’ with me—ah, coming out with me, I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” she said and turned to face him, releasing her hold on his arm. Then she put her hands on his shoulders and stood on tiptoe. She pecked him on the lips with that red bud of a mouth of hers, then danced away.
“Good night,” she said. “Sleep tight. Pleasant dreams.”
Dag stood there, speechless, his lips burning as if they had been brushed lightly with stinging nettles—or touched by a sudden, searing fire that was beyond understanding and like nothing he had ever felt before.
Chapter 18
Flagg rode well ahead of the herd, scouting the best terrain, the best grass, and the fewest chances of ambush by marauding Indians. Dag rode beside him, both of them setting the pace for the chuck wagon, which had been taking the lead for several weeks. Flagg had kept it in the rear for some days because of the way the herd acted after leaving the home range. Cattle fought to return for at least three days, and this herd, because it had grown so much, had been especially hard to handle. Now it had to follow the pace of the chuck wagon so that they wouldn’t lose time when it came to the drovers and mealtimes. The noon meal was served when the sun was straight up, and supper at sundown. Period.
Over the past weeks, Flagg had slowed the drive down considerably so that they could trail brand the cattle they now had, which numbered close to thirty-three hundred head. The trail brands were used to identify the herd in case it got mixed in with another. Flagg had chosen the brand, which was placed on the right hip of their cattle. It was the QC, which stood for Quitaque-Cheyenne.
“Somebody’s coming,” Dag said, pointing ahead. “Can’t make out who it is, friend or foe.”
Flagg looked at the two specks on the horizon. They were riding over a vast island of grass and the herd was fattening up, moving slow, behind them.
“Friend, I’d say,” Flagg said. “They ain’t movin’ fast and they’re headed straight for us.”
“Tall horses,” Dag said. “Not ponies.”
“You’re gettin’ good at this, Felix,” Flagg said. “Them weeks ridin’ swing and flank and drag didn’t do you no harm.”
Dag laughed. “I rode point too.”
“Yeah, you did.”
The point riders were on either side of the herd at the front. They saw to it that the lead steer, which had replaced the cow that started out in that position, stayed on course and kept moving. About a third of the way behind them rode the swing riders, and back another third were the flank riders. The drag riders brought up the rear of the herd and were responsible for turning any cattle that tried to go back to the home range or anywhere else they weren’t supposed to go.
Dagstaff and Flagg kept riding toward the two approaching riders. When the two strangers got close, Dag saw that they were cowmen. The lariats hanging from their saddles looked well worn, and they had that look about them: dusty, battered hats, wind- and sun-weathered faces, and dirt-caked lines around their mouths.
“Howdy,” one of the men said, the taller of the two. “I’m Paul Gustafsen, and this is my segundo, Dave Franklin. We’re from the Double C spread, just a stone’s chunk from here. Folks call me Gus.”
“I’m Jubal Flagg, the trail boss, and this is the rancher who hired me, Felix Dagstaff. We call him Dag, among other things.”
Gus laughed. “I saw your dust,” he said, “wondered if you boys would like to drive some of my herd to the railhead. You headed for Abilene?”
“No,” Dag said, “farther west and north. Better money.”
“Smoke?” Dave said, pulling the makings from his pocket.
“Sure,” Dag said, extending his hand out for the sack of tobacco.
“I’ll cut me a chaw,” Flagg said, digging out a twist from his shirt pocket.
Dag rolled a cigarette, wet it down with his spit, and handed the sack back to Gus, who rolled one and handed the sack to Franklin. Dag lit their cigarettes, then his, while Flagg stuffed a cut-off chunk of tobacco into his mouth, folded up his Barlow pocketknife, and put it away.
“Good market for beef where you’re goin’?” Gus asked, a casual tone to his voice.
“Fair to middlin’,” Dag said.
“Are you full up, or could you drive some of my herd up to wherever you’re goin’?”
“How many head?” Flagg asked. He was still the trail boss, and this concerned him as much as it did Dag.
“Oh, maybe seven hunnert or so. I been waitin’ for a drive to come this way. You’re the first I’ve seen all spring.”
“What kind of price are you lookin’ for?” Dag asked, not wanting to appear too eager. Gus, though, just might be the answer to his prayers. Outlaw cattle were scarce in these parts.
“Oh, I’d be right satisfied with anything over fifteen dollars a head,” Gus said.
Dag’s eyebrows arched. He couldn’t help it. Maybe dreams did come true. He looked at Flagg, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
“We could maybe do a mite better than that, Gus,” Dag said. “How many hands can you put with us?”
“Only a couple. That be enough?”
“We have plenty of drovers,” Flagg said. “Two men would work just fine, I reckon.”
Gus smiled. So did Dave.
“We could maybe put twenty or twenty-five greenbacks in your hand for each head that finished the drive,” Dag said. “That do?”
“That would be just fine—uh, Dag, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Wish I could go with you. But we’ve had Comanche trouble round here lately. That’s one reason I want to thin my herd.”
The three men with quirlys smoked. Flagg chewed and spat.
“You got water on your spread for my herd?” Flagg asked. “We could maybe bed down there tonight and trail
