“We’ll get fifty.”
The men from two ranches, the Box M and the D Slash, gathered at the chuck wagon. They all dismounted and ground-tied their horses. They knew they were not through riding for the day. There was an air of anticipation among them as they whispered their concerns to one another and looked at Dag for a sign of what he might be going to say.
“Gather round,” Dag said to the men.
The hands and Matlee formed a semicircle around Dag. In the chuck wagon, Bill Finnerty, the cook they called “Fingers” and his daughter, Jo, sat on the buckboard seat overlooking the cluster of men.
“Well,” Dag said, “that’s the gather yonder. Headed north. We’ll start the drive in two days.”
“How many head you got, Dag?” Matlee called out.
“I’ll get to that, Barry. Just hold your horses.”
Laughter rippled through the assemblage like a nervous current.
“We’ll have shifts watch the herd, giving you all a chance to go home, say goodbye, and pack for the trip. Bring rifles, pistols, ammunition, canteens, bedrolls, extra tack, your favorite grub. Extra horses. I want the remuda to have some sixty to sixty-five head. Fingers won’t spoil you on this trip. And neither will Josephine.”
More laughter, less nervous this time.
Then one of Matlee’s men, Fred Reilly, spoke up. “You’re not takin’ no woman on this drive, are you, Dagstaff?”
“Where Fingers goes, his daughter goes. Yes, Jo is coming with us, and you should all be mighty grateful. And maybe you’ll learn some manners along the way, Reilly.”
There was a trickle of laughter, but it was plain to see that a lot of the men objected to having a woman along on a trail drive, especially one that would last as long as this one. There were some muttering and grumbling, but it died down quickly.
“Make your own choices for the rotation. Half here, half going home. Then the same tomorrow. I know, I know, some of you won’t have as much time to kiss the missus as the others, but you can quarrel about that when you divide up.”
A chuckle or two broke out, but the seriousness of the moment was not lost on anyone there.
“Expect to be gone most of a year,” Dag said, and waited for the effect of his words on all the men.
“I don’t think we have near enough cattle to make the drive,” Matlee said, a moment later. “Not enough to pay for a drive even to Abilene or Sedalia.”
“Barry,” Dag said, “you really got that head count stuck in your craw, don’t you?”
Dag said it amiably and the crowd laughed, but then it turned serious. Some more grumbling began to break out. Dag held up his hands to quiet the men down.
“It’s a damned good question, Dag,” Jimmy said. “A lot of us have been wonderin’ what you mean to do with this scrawny little herd.”
The men grunted in agreement with Gough.
“This from a man who doesn’t know one end of a cow from the other,” Dag said. “He’s a mighty fine horse wrangler, but I caught him trying to milk a steer the other day.”
More laughter erupted, and Dag felt some of the tension subside this time.
“All right, you deserve an answer, Barry, and here’s what I’ve worked out. Before you all go protesting, hear me out.”
“We’re waiting, Dag,” Matlee said. “You’ve got the deal.”
“And all the cards,” Dag quipped. Then, in a more serious tone, he began speaking. He spoke very slowly and loud enough for every man to hear.
“When I made the trip to Cheyenne last year, I saw a lot of stray cattle. I saw a lot of unbranded cattle. Now what we’re going to do is forage all the way through Texas. Box M men can brand the cattle they bring in, and my men will burn the D Slash into those they bring to the herd. I’ll pay seventy-five cents extra for each head brought in. Now there are millions of cattle in Texas and not all of them wear brands. I expect this herd to swell to the number we need by the time we hit the Red River.”
“Impossible,” someone said.
“It’s going to be work—I grant you that,” Dag said. “But by God, we can do it and we’re going to do it.”
“You really think we can find nearly three thousand head of cattle on the drive?” Matlee asked.
“I do. And I’m going to show all of you how to do it, starting on the first day of the drive, two days from now.”
There were expressions of disbelief among a number of the men. Dag stood his ground and let the dissension die down.
“Now one other thing,” Dag said, “there’s going to be only one trail boss on this drive. He will have the final say on anything that comes up. He’s the best there is, and I want you to know that even I will follow his orders. I’ve given this a lot of thought and I’ve talked to the man and he’s agreed to come with us and lead us to Cheyenne.”
“You’re not going to be trail boss?” Jimmy Gough asked.
“No, I’ll be out with all of you, rounding up more head to fill our contract.”
“Well, who the hell is this trail boss?” Reilly asked. “We might not like the son of a bitch.”
More laughter.
Again, Dag waited until there was absolute silence.
Then he dropped the bomb, knowing there would be an explosion. “Jubal Flagg,” he said.
The air turned blue with curses, and for a few moments, Dag thought he might have a riot on his hands. But all he did was stand there and smile with a confidence he knew he didn’t have. Jubal Flagg was probably the most hated man in that part of the country. But he was also the best.
Chapter 5
Dag stood on the back porch of his adobe house staring past the outhouse and garden to beyond the empty pastures at the flaming sunset. The magnificent glow stretched from horizon to horizon like the banked fires of a gigantic furnace. Tomorrow would be a good day, he thought, and hoped the next one would be too. He thought of the others who worked on his ranch, knowing they were home, as well. The Box M hands and his own had decided to take separate shifts. Tomorrow, he and his men would relieve Matlee’s so they could pack and say goodbye to their families and friends.
The final tally that day had wound up being 1,376 head of cattle, more than he had figured. He was still a long way from having enough for the long drive to Cheyenne, but in his heart, he knew he would swell the herd to nearly four thousand head.
It was a big gamble, he knew, but with Flagg running the outfit, they had a better than even chance of picking up enough unbranded cattle to fulfill the contract.
“Felix, supper’s ready.”
Dag turned and saw his wife standing in the open doorway, a smile on her tired face. The woman worked hard, but time had been kind to her. She was still beautiful, with her auburn hair and sparkling blue eyes, her sculptured face radiant with Grecian symmetry and grace. Her apron bulged out with the baby growing inside her. Alas, he would not be there to see it born, come September.
“Thanks, Laura. Would you just look at that sunset?”
She laughed. “I see it every day when you’re gone,” she said, “and I wonder if you’re looking at it the same time as I am.”
He followed her into the house, into the rich smells of her kitchen, to the table laid out for supper in the center of the room, still magically cool despite the heat of the woodstove at one end of the room. Steam drifted up through the cone of golden light shining from the overhead oil lamp. He sat down at the head of table; Laura sat by his side. They bowed their heads and Dag spoke the prayer he always said at supper.
“Heavenly Father,” he intoned, “we thank you for the food at our table that you have so graciously provided. We thank you for the life you have given us, and the home wherein we dwell. Amen.”
“Amen,” Laura echoed, and they began to eat. She had prepared roast beef, potatoes, green beans, biscuits,
