By the time Flagg and Dagstaff returned, Manny Chavez had the herd moving. They passed Fingers, Jo, and the chuck wagon on the way back. Flagg gave Fingers directions, told him where to turn west.
“We’ll see you at noon,” Flagg said.
“Yes, sir, boss,” Fingers said, grinning like a Cheshire cat on hard cider.
“I’m excited,” Jo said. “New lands, adventure, leaving Texas.”
“Let’s not hope for too much adventure,” Dag said. “But I guarantee you’re gonna find the trail interesting.”
“See you at noon, Felix,” she said, a warmth in her voice that wrapped around him and seeped into his senses like fragrant silk.
They met at noon at the head of the canyon, with the herd still moving, grazing slowly as they moved northwest. Riders came and went from getting their chuck and riding herd. The hands all looked haggard from working well into the night with the trail branding, but the change in direction seemed to perk them up. The sky began to fill with clouds by late afternoon, huge white galleons sailing in from the west, their sails unfurled in fluffy, bulging billows of cotton, brilliant against a blue sky.
The country was beginning to become more rugged and the cattle had to fan out in a wide area to forage for grass. By that evening, cattle, horses, and men were near exhaustion. Flagg made a decision that they would lie up for most of the following day so that everyone could get some rest before continuing the drive. The new cattle from the Double C were still inclined to turn back toward their home ranch and it was an all-day fight to keep driving them back into the herd.
“A day off will make the Double C cows more tolerant of being driven off their home range,” Flagg told everyone. “So rest up and then be prepared for some rugged going.”
Dag slept fitfully that night and was glad he didn’t have to get up early. But he was in for a rude surprise when, shortly after dawn, he felt himself being shaken out of a sleep that had finally come only an hour or so before.
“What? Who the hell . . . ?”
“Dag, get up,” Jimmy Gough said. “I got some bad news.”
“Huh?”
“Damn it, Dag. I’m real sorry. I don’t know how it happened.”
Dag wrestled his blanket from him and sat up, rubbing his hands through his hair and blinking his eyes. For a few seconds he couldn’t remember where he was, but then he heard cattle lowing and knew he sure as hell wasn’t back in his own house and bed.
“What you got in your craw, Jimmy?”
“Somebody sneaked in a while ago and stole your horse, Dag.”
Dag came fully awake. He stood up and looked at Gough as if he had lost his senses.
“Nero?”
“Yeah. I heard some whickering over in the remuda a few minutes ago. I got up and went over there. I saw some tracks and got curious, so I did a head count. It wasn’t no Injun, for sure. Somebody wearin’ boots come up and stole Nero. He was the onliest horse what was took.”
“Damn it, Jimmy. What do you mean it wasn’t an Injun?”
“Tracks are plain, Dag. The man was afoot and he wore boots.”
Dag dressed quickly and strapped on his six-gun. “Maybe you’re mistaken, Jimmy. Let’s take a look. Show me them tracks.”
The two walked to the remuda, where all the horses were hobbled and grazing on the sparse grasses. Jimmy led him to a bare spot where there were two sets of tracks. Dag recognized Nero’s hoofprints. And the man’s tracks were definitely not Indian: bootheels gouged into the ground, a clear outline of the soles. The tracks led away from camp, to the north.
“Can you read tracks, Dag?” Jimmy asked.
“I can sure as hell read these. We got us a horsethief, Jimmy.”
“But who? There ain’t no ranch within miles of here from the look of the land.”
“Well, I’m damned sure goin’ to find out. Let me pick out a good horse and saddle up. I’ll find the bastard.”
“In this country, you need a horse with good legs and bottom. How about that little sorrel gelding, Firefly? You rode him before.”
“Yeah. I’ll saddle up Firefly, get some grub, and light out.”
“You ain’t plannin’ on trackin’ by yourself?”
“It’s only one man’s tracks I see here, Jimmy.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Could be a whole passel of outlaws where he’s a-goin’.”
“I’ll think about it.”
By that time, Flagg and some others were up. Fingers had the breakfast fire going and coffee boiling. Dag had given Flagg the oilskin map the night before and he knew Jubal had stayed late by the fire, studying it.
He told Flagg what had happened and that he was going to track the horsethief.
“You better take somebody with you, Dag. Somebody who’s as good a shot as you are.”
“Why?”
“You know who you’re goin’ after, don’t you?”
“No, I wish I did.”
The two walked over to the remuda so that Flagg could study the tracks. “I recognize those boots,” Flagg said. “You’re going to be trackin’ a skunk.”
“That ain’t no news. Any horsethief’s a skunk.”
“Yeah, Dag, but this one goes by the name of Don Horton.”
Dag let the news sink in. Why hadn’t he come to that same conclusion? Horton, of course.
“Yeah, Jubal. He stole Nero for a reason, didn’t he?”
“He sure as hell did. He don’t want the horse, Dag. He wants you.”
Dag felt as if someone had slammed him in the gut with a sixteen-pound sledgehammer.
Chapter 21
Dag wanted to know how Flagg recognized the bootprint as Horton’s.
“He cut the sole on a boot scraper,” Flagg said, “nicked the sole, just before we left Deuce’s.”
“I saw the nick,” Dag said, as he finished saddling Firefly.
“I ought to be going with you, Dag. Could be dangerous.”
“I’d rather you stay with the herd, Jubal. I’m taking Lonnie with me.”
Even as he said it, Lonnie Cavins rode up on a sorrel gelding, Socks, fifteen hands high with four white stockings and a blaze face—a strong young, horse, with a sound chest. Lonnie had a Sharps carbine jutting from its scabbard and wore a Colt six-shooter in .45 caliber. Another pistol dripped from the saddle horn, a matched Colt. He looked, Dag thought, with his beard and unruly hair clumping from under his hat, like a dirty pipe cleaner all covered with soot. He was as lean and as homely as a dried string bean, but the man was quietly fearless and could use each and every weapon he had close at hand. His pale blue eyes betrayed no emotion.
“Good choice,” Flagg said. “Cavins can shoot with the best.”
“They called him ‘Dead Eye’ in the war,” Dag said.
“You boys better take some grub with you, and make sure your canteens are filled. Oh, here comes Jo now.”
Jo came over with two paper packages. She handed one to Cavins, one to Dag.
“Some hardtack and jerky,” she said. “Felix, be careful, won’t you?”
In that mysterious grapevine that seemed to have no source or conveyance known to mortal man, half the camp knew about the stolen horse and who the thief was. Men walked up to wish them luck. Their faces blurred as Dag acknowledged them, impatient to start tracking Horton. Tracks aged, he knew, and it could rain and the wind
