and have the company of your own kind. I am goin’ to miss you, Nero boy, and I hope you miss me too.”
Then Dag crumpled up and began to weep softly. After a minute, the sobs came from a deep place and he couldn’t stop them. He put his head on Nero’s neck and rubbed his back with soft strokes.
“Damn, it ain’t right,” Dag husked, and stood up, the sobs lessening now, some semblance of reason returning. He wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve, closed them to squeeze out the last of the tears.
“So long, pard,” he whispered, and the tears came back again, choking him, uncontrollably.
He looked up at the sky through wet eyes and saw the clouds and the blue ocean and thought he heard Nero whinny from some far place, but it was only an illusion. The wind rose and blew against him. The scent of Nero wafted to his nostrils, not the scent of the dead horse, but the one that was still alive in his mind.
He did not look again at Nero, but started walking back down the slope, the wind at his back, and the acrid stench of death filling his nostrils and strangling his hammering heart.
Chapter 22
The delirium and the fever lasted three days. Dag lay on a makeshift cot inside the wagon that Finnerty had rigged for him. Fingers figured out that he could store food and utensils beneath the sickbed and not lose any space. Jo fed Dag hot and cold broth and wiped his feverish face with wet clothes while Dag raved or slept or hallucinated. It wasn’t until after they had crossed Palo Duro Creek, a creek that had no connection with the canyon, that Dag started to come around. The wound in his arm had scabbed over and the broth helped him regain the blood he had lost.
The herd moved on, into New Mexico Territory.
For the past several weeks, Flagg had been training the herd not to stampede if it heard gunfire. He started out by having a man shoot one shot from his rifle at some distance from the herd. Each day, and always during the day, he ordered each shot to be fired closer to the herd. And for the past several days, the single shot had been fired within sight of the herd. The cattle had soon learned that they were not in danger from these odd noises.
Now Flagg wondered if the herd would stampede if a lot of rifles were fired and the animals were sent into a panic that caused them to run helter-skelter. He had been watching his backtrail and seeing the flash of mirrors. He had known, for a time, that they were being followed by Comanches, perhaps the same ones who had dogged them through Palo Duro Canyon.
Then the flashings had stopped, and he thought he knew why. The Comanches were closing in. The signaling had stopped shortly after they had burned Nero. The fire had sent a tall column of black smoke into the sky, which could be seen for many miles.
And he lied to Dag about that.
“What did you do with Nero?” Dag had asked during a lucid moment.
“We gave your horse a proper burial,” Flagg said, “buried him deep to keep the critters from getting at him.”
“Thanks, Jubal. What about Horton?”
“We stripped Horton naked and left his corpse on an anthill. I expect he’s just bones by now.”
And then Dag had drifted off again. But he remembered the conversation, because he thanked Flagg again.
“You won’t believe what we found in Horton’s boot, Dag.”
“What?”
“It’s almost like a signed confession. It’s a contract between Deuce and Horton. Says if he murders you before we reach the Red, he gets your ranch and everything.”
“That son of a bitch.”
“You’re going to have to deal with Deuce when you get back home, Dag. But you got proof enough to send him to the gallows. We’ll all give testimony if there’s a trial.”
“There sure as hell’s gonna be something,” Dag said, a bitter tone to his voice.
Then the Comanches rose up out of nowhere, and they were everywhere, their faces painted for war, their arrows nocked on taut bowstrings, war clubs and lances piercing the skyline, tongues trilling, screams tearing from their throats.
“Look out,” Manny Chavez yelled on the left flank where he was riding point.
Flagg turned in his saddle and saw them, their feathers rippling in the wind as the Comanche converged on lone riders at every manned point on the herd. He drew his rifle from his scabbard and turned his horse. He levered a cartridge into the chamber, cocking the rifle. He brought it to his shoulder and picked out the nearest target, a nearly naked Comanche, chest and face daubed in brilliant colors, loincloth flapping, charging Chavez with a lance. He led the running brave, squeezed the trigger and saw him fall as he launched his lance into the air.
Gunshots rang out as startled drovers drew pistols and rifles and picked out targets. Flagg saw men fall from their horses with arrows sprouting from their bodies. He swung his rifle, dropped another Comanche, and then three of them came after him. He put spurs to his horse’s flanks and charged straight at them, firing once, swerving his horse, jerking the lever down, then back up and swerving again as arrows whistled through the air, then whispered past him, only to strike the ground and chip sparks from rocks or impale the ground at an angle, the shafts vibrating with a brittle hum.
A brave dragged a man from his horse. Another ran up and swung a war club. The club struck the man in the side of the head and smashed it like a ripe pumpkin, scattering brains and blood like boiled oatmeal streaked with ketchup. A drover riding drag took a Comanche arrow in the belly and screamed. Two warriors came at him on moccasined feet, slashing with war clubs. The rider swung his rifle at them, but the clubs smashed his knee-caps and shins. Ed Langley screamed in pain as he was dragged out of the saddle and brained until his face looked like a distorted mask floating at the bottom of a vat of water.
Jimmy Gough left Little Jake in charge of the remuda and rode to the rear of the herd, his rifle cocked. He shot on the run, dropping one Comanche, jacking another cartridge into the chamber and squeezing the trigger on another who was trying to kill one of the drovers with his lance.
Fingers and Jo halted the chuck wagon at the sound of rifle shots. But they were out of sight of the herd and could not see what was happening. Fingers turned the wagon broadside to the trail.
“Jo, hand me that Henry under the seat,” he said. “You grab the Greener and watch in case somebody comes after us.”
“Daddy, it sounds like the drovers are under attack.” She handed her father the rifle and put the shotgun on her lap.
Dag rose up in the back as the wagon was turning. He had been asleep. “Wha-what is it?” he asked, still groggy and thick-tongued.
“Felix, you lie still now, hear?” Jo said. “We’re just turning the wagon.”
“I hear shots.”
“I know. There’s nothing we can do about it. Now hush.”
Dag laid his head back down, realizing how weak he was. Just that small effort had put a sheen of sweat on his face, and brought back the throbbing pain in his arm.
The gunfire continued, fast and furious, sounding like the crack of whips in rapid succession.
Flagg saw them coming and swung his rifle on them. But at the same time, he saw a Comanche warrior drawing his bow back, aiming an arrow at him.
A dozen or more Indians came boiling over the ridge, leading an equal number of riderless horses, each to a man. The pack of charging warriors broke into single riders, who rode for the fighting men on the ground, picking them up one by one.
Flagg fired quickly, just as the Comanche loosed his arrow, then ducked. He saw the man jerk with the impact of a bullet just below his gullet, then collapse to the ground, blood spurting from his throat.
He swung his rifle toward the pack of Comanches, but by then they were split up. He saw what was happening. As each man on foot leaped on the back of a horse, the Comanches began cutting cattle out of the herd. They all converged and drove the stolen cattle off, yipping and screeching to keep them running away from the herd.
Flagg had never seen such horsemanship before. All of the Comanches were now mounted and weaving their
