ponies back and forth, herding the cattle perfectly while on the run. He fired a shot at one of the Indians, but it went high and wide.
And then the Comanches were gone, along with about a dozen head of cattle.
Matlee rode up, his face covered with sweat and dust. “Jubal, we goin’ after ’em?”
“Barry, there could be a hundred Indians just over that hill yonder, just waitin’ for us. Do you figger it’s worth it?”
“Hell, they stole our cattle. A couple of hundred dollars’ worth, at least.”
Flagg looked around. Men were moaning, lying flat on their backs or doubled up in pain. There were dead Comanches too. Riderless horses, under saddle, wandered in confusion. The cattle were bawling and milling, as if ready to bolt.
“This herd could jump at any minute, Barry. Let’s tend to what we got.”
Matlee scowled, but nodded, and turned his horse. “I got men down,” he said.
Flagg watched the dust hanging in the air, left by the retreating Comanches. He knew it was not worth the risk to go after the thieves when there was a chance they could lose the entire herd and spend days tracking the cattle down.
He waited until the dust dissipated and then reloaded his rifle, shoved it into its boot. He turned to the herd, saw that some men were tending to the wounded, while others were trying to calm the herd and keep them from stampeding.
“Manny, let’s string ’em out,” Flagg said. “Keep ’em movin’ ahead. Don’t give ’em time to think.”
“Yeah, boss,” Chavez said. He and the two riders from the Double C started cutting through the head of the herd, sending small bunches of cattle after the lead steer and the bunch following it into the stream heading northwest.
Flagg watched the herd for any sign of revolt, barking orders, holding the strays in, helping where he could. Soon the herd was strung out and moving at a good pace, settling down, following blindly behind the cattle in the lead.
“Manny, you let ’em graze when you think they’re ready. I’ll have riders keep an eye on our back trail. The drovers are set.”
Chavez nodded as Flagg rode up to Jimmy.
“They drive off any horses?” Flagg asked.
“I don’t know. I left Little Jake to watch the remuda.”
“Let’s find out,” Flagg said.
Little Jake’s face was drained of color. He had an old cap-and-ball pistol in his hand and it was shaking as if he had the palsy.
“Lose any horseflesh, Little Jake?” Gough asked.
“Nary a one, Jimmy. I didn’t even see one Comanche come near. But I was ready to shoot if one did.”
“Good man, Little Jake,” Flagg said. “Now put that pistol away before you shoot one of the horses in the ass.”
“Yes, sir,” Bogel said, only too glad to finally be told what to do.
“And when you get paid, get yourself a good Colt and throw that one away,” Flagg said, “or use it for a sashweight when you build yourself a house.”
“It’s been a right good pistol, Mr. Flagg.”
“And so was the sword in its time, son.”
Jimmy chuckled. Little Jake looked puzzled as he holstered the black powder weapon, an 1851 Navy Colt.
“Golly, Jimmy,” Little Jake Bogel said, “Mr. Flagg talked to me.”
“Just hope he don’t talk to you when he’s got a burr under his blanket.”
Then Jimmy saw men carrying the dead to a little hill alongside the trail. Tears stung his eyes and he had to take deep breaths to keep from getting sick to his stomach.
Little Jake leaned out from the saddle and emptied his breakfast onto the lone prairie as buzzards appeared out of nowhere and made lazy circles in the sky.
Chapter 23
Firefly became Dag’s chosen horse and it felt good to be back in the saddle again. They had come through rain and nights with the cold north winds blowing off the distant mountains, and he rode with the memory of them all back at that small hill with six rocky mounds paying their respects to the men who had died the day the Comanches attacked and robbed them of a dozen head of cattle, brands of which would never be known. He wept when Matlee read off the names of the dead, his own hands, and Barry’s: Ed Langley, Doofus Wallace, Paco Noriega, and Matlee’s hands, Tommy Colgan, Billy Lee Grant, Doug Hazlett.
They still had plenty of hands, too many, really, with the two Double C men, but all of them felt the loss of those six men keenly and deeply, as if part of their lives had been torn away from them, leaving them hollow inside, with the faces of the dead fading from memory at the end of each passing day.
And Dag remembered Fingers taking him from the wagon when he was so sick, to relieve himself and crying out for Laura in his delirium for a time, until he only called out for Jo, and Laura’s face was fading too. When he tried to think of her, her face would change and he would see only Jo’s and he cursed his memory and himself for being so faithless. But Jo had been his ministering angel, and when he saw her bending over him, in the soft twilight, spooning hot broth into his mouth, he wanted to draw her to him and hold her tight and run his fingers through her hair and kiss that little rosebud of a mouth and make it flower.
The wound had changed him, Dag reasoned. He would return to his true nature one day. Maybe when the drive was over, or when he was back home with Laura and their little baby. The place where the bullet had furrowed through his flesh had long since healed and he had full use of his arm. Once in a while, if he moved it in a certain way, he would feel a slight twinge, but he didn’t know if it was real or only his skin’s memory, like a man with an amputated foot would feel his toes wriggle when there were no toes there anymore.
They had passed the little town of Conchas, where they stocked up on supplies, and were now at the swollen Mora River, where they had been waiting two days to find a ford to cross. Dag was searching for a ford now, without finding any place shallow enough to risk putting cattle into without putting them and the drovers in danger. He rode back to where the herd was bunched, to see if anyone else had found a suitable ford.
“The water isn’t going down none,” Flagg said, “and it looks like we’re going to get more rain. Look at that sky to the west.”
Dag saw the black thunderheads gathering over the mountains, heading their way slowly. He shook his head.
“We’ve been here two days, Jubal,” he said.
“And we could be here a week. Dag, I’m going to send some of the men back. We can’t afford to keep ’em on the payroll. Fingers is strapped for supplies until we get to the next town.”
“We stocked up in Conchas.”
“Some of the food was plumb spoiled,” Flagg said.
“Shit.”
“Who do you want to send back?”
Dag thought for a moment. He looked at the men, many of whom had started to grumble, and the night before, some of his hands got into a fracas with some Box M drovers. Fists flew and blood was spilled. Hard feelings remained.
“How many?” Dag asked.
“We only need a dozen men at most to finish the drive. Maybe fifteen.”
“I think we’ll need fifteen, at least.”
“Make your choice, Dag.”
Dag drew a deep breath. “We can send Chad Myers back. He’s got a family that’s probably hurtin’ by now. And Carl Costello. Ricardo Mendoza, maybe. That’s about all I could spare.”
“All right. Matlee will send a couple or three back. I think you’re keeping the best hands, Dag.”
