get no help from me with your damned roundup.”
“But we have always done roundup together,” Deutsch protested. “Who is to regulate?”
“I’ll regulate our cows. You regulate your own. Now clear out.”
Coker stepped forward, a scowl on his face. “Dagstaff, you’re violating the law of the range here.”
“You’ve got a nerve, Coker. Deutsch backed down on his word. Out here a man’s word is the law.”
“You’re not leavin’ us out, Dagstaff,” Coker said. “We got as much right to check cattle as you do.”
“Yeah? Well, not anymore, Coker. Pack it up.”
Coker’s rage surged up so quickly nobody there was prepared for it. He balled up his fists and rushed toward Dagstaff. He drove a fist into Dag’s face, knocking him backward. Blood spurted from Dag’s nose and he reeled under the impact. Then all hands erupted and joined in the fray. Coker drove in for another blow, but Dag shook off the pain and slammed Coker with a roundhouse right that caught him in the left jaw, staggering him.
Deutsch went after Dag, a fist cocked to hammer a blow to his face. Dag moved his head and Deutsch’s fist grazed his chin, knocking his head back slightly. Dag drove a fist into Deutsch’s paunch, saw the man quiver and absorb the blow as he expelled air from his lungs.
Fists flew from every direction after that. Men yelled and pummeled one another with flailing arms. There was biting, clawing, and kicks to the groin as the fight turned into a wild melee. Matlee squared off with Coker and the two exchanged punches. Blood squirted from noses and ears. Dag grappled with the heavier Deutsch, who was trying to wrestle him to the ground. Breathing heavily, Dag drove a fist into Deutsch’s groin. The man grunted in pain and doubled over. Dag hit him with a powerful uppercut, but the two went down, rolling away from the center of the fight, both men lashing at each other with their fists and open hands.
Jimmy Gough smashed Coker with a straight right to the throat. Coker gasped for air, and a wheezing sound issued from his throat, while his lips started to turn blue. Jimmy felt someone climb on his back and turned, trying to shake the man off. He felt arms wrap around his neck. He drove an elbow into his attacker’s gut and heard a groan. He shook himself free and stepped away, drawing his pistol.
Jimmy fired into the air.
“That’s enough,” he yelled. “I’ll shoot the next man that throws a punch.”
The men stopped fighting and looked at Gough, whose eyes blazed like red-hot coals.
Jimmy swung the snout of his pistol toward Coker. “You’ll be the first to die, Coker,” Gough said. “Now you heard Dag. Clear out, or you’ll join Luke draped over your own saddle.”
“Don’t shoot, Jimmy,” Coker said. “We’ll go, but you watch your back, hear?”
“So you’re a back shooter, eh, Coker? Well, if you want to call it, call it now. I’m ready to open the ball, you son of a bitch.”
The ensuing silence told Dag that the fight was over—unless somebody made a terrible mistake and called Jimmy out. He could see that Gough was ready to shoot the first man who made an aggressive move. He dusted himself off, slapping his trousers and shirt.
“All right, Jimmy,” Dag said, “you made your point. Let’s drop it. No more threats, Coker. Just pack up and ride off. Deuce, you get your men out of here. Barry, get one of your men to take Luke back home. We’ve had enough grief for one day.”
Deuce nodded, swiping a sleeve across bloody lips. “You pay for this, Dagstaff,” he said, huffing for breath. “By God, you pay dear for the trouble you bring.”
Dag drew his pistol. He aimed the barrel at Deutsch and cocked it. In the silence, men sucked in their breath and froze in their tracks. Off in the distance a meadowlark trilled.
“We go,” Deutsch said, and turned to Coker. “We go back, Coker. Tomorrow the roundup we will make.”
Dag watched as Coker and his men gathered their cups and mounted up in sullen silence. Matlee took the reins of Luke’s horse from Little Jake, who had sat his horse watching the whole thing, dumbfounded at the sudden eruption of violence.
Deutsch and the men of the Rocking D rode off to the east, into the glare of the sun.
Dag let the hammer down on his pistol and holstered it. Jimmy slid his own pistol back into its holster and let out a long breath.
No one spoke for a long time, as if they all were wondering what to do next, as if wondering who had been right, who had won, who had lost.
Chapter 4
Some of the longhorns that spring were as wild as the beasts of far-off Africa. Chad Myers and Carl Costello, two of Dag’s hands riding for his D Slash spread, were driving eight of them out of a brushy draw under a hot sun that boiled all of the salt out of them and burned their already leathered faces to the crispness of fried bacon. Chad’s little cow pony, Ruff, was working back and forth like a dog with a bone, while Carl’s horse, Lulu, crowded the rear, sawing back and forth to keep the cattle in line.
The cattle streamed onto level land, moving their heads back and forth to look over their surroundings. Their legs were caked with mud, which had accumulated on the ground from the recent rains. Chad edged toward the leader to let the cow know that if it bolted, he would run it down. He slipped the lariat from its thongs and shook out a loop, just in case. Carl put his horse into a sideways sidle and bunched the cows up from the rear. The cattle halted in a bunch and Chad let them think it over.
“This ought to be the last of it,” he told Carl.
“Yup. We’re always the last in.”
“These ain’t seen a horse all winter, let alone a rider.”
“Maybe a lot longer than that. Check them brands.”
Carl noted that four of the cows had the D Slash brand, which was Dag’s. Two were Box M cattle, belonging to Matlee. One was a Rocking D, Deutsch’s brand. The seventh had no brand at all.
“Cut out the Rocking D and let’s head ’em in for the tally,” Chad said.
Carl moved the cattle and guided his horse to cut out the Deutsch cow. An hour later, they arrived at the main herd, which stretched from horizon to horizon. They waved to Dag and Jimmy, Ed Langley and Doofus Wallace, who were tending the smaller bunch of cattle separated from the main herd. Dag was tallying the cattle, with Jimmy looking on as a backup checker. Wallace and Langley were letting the counted cows join the main herd, holding back the rest.
“Just run ’em in behind,” Dag called to Chad.
The two men let their cows join the smaller herd, then rode flank on the rest until the tallying was done. The ground was still wet from the heavy rains, so there was little dust that day. Some of the mud was starting to cake up under the baking heat of the sun. They rode up to Dag and Jimmy.
“That’s the last of them, boss. All we could find.” Chad took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his bandanna.
“It don’t look good,” Dag said. “About half Matlee’s and half ours.”
“What’s the tally?” Carl asked.
“A shade under twelve hundred head.”
“Shit.” Chad put his hat back on, squared it, and crumpled the crown with a pinch of deft fingers.
“Let’s go over to the chuck wagon and talk about this,” Dag said.
The whole herd moved slowly, and as Dag rode the length of it, he talked to the other herders and told them to leave the cows to graze and join them at the chuck wagon next to Rattlesnake Creek. The herd began to swell and expand as the riders left, the cattle grazing on new shoots of green grass. It was like watching a river widen and extend its banks, Dag thought. And the herd was pointed north.
“One of them cows warn’t branded,” Chad told Dag as he rode alongside. “We cut out a Rocking D.”
“Good. Too bad we can’t use a running iron on those.”
Chad laughed. “I could make one real quick.”
“We’ll do this by the book, Chad,” Dag said.
“I’ll bet we ran into a thousand head of Deuce stock on this last go-round.”
“I counted a few hundred myself. Deuce will come out all right at thirty-five dollars a head in Sedalia.”
“He might get forty.”
