The Long Trail Home (8 page)

He sprinted to the top of the hill. To the north, a fifty-mile-deep, solid mass of buffalo stampeded his direction. From his vantage on the knoll, he could look back and see his mother, still sitting on the blanket, reading. Beside her now, a little girl, no more than three or four, plucked petals off a large white daisy.

I've got to turn 'em! They're headed right for Mama and Dacee June. Where's Daddy? Why isn't he here? This is his job. I can't turn a herd this size. There's nothin' I can do!

Sam knelt on one knee and raised the carbine to his shoulder, cocking the stiff hammer. He studied the ten-mile-wide herd. Slightly in the lead, a huge bull, tongue hanging out and head down, whipped his tail excitedly against his rear end.

He sighted the .50-caliber carbine on the big bull.

But he didn't squeeze the trigger.

He waited.

Now, the buffalo pounded only a hundred yards away. The noise vibrated his eardrums. They drew close enough that he flipped down the long range sight and watched the charge from the narrow slot of the filed dime that acted as a barrel sight.

Still, he didn't pull the trigger.

He could hear them breathe. Sucking in; blowing out. He could smell the musty odor of buffalo hair. He could see the panicked big eyes of the lead bull.

Ten more steps and they would run right over the top of him.

Then he pulled the trigger.

And the sky turned dark.

Hooves thundered near him. A dead horse lay no more than five feet in front of him. A barefoot Kiowa Fox was yelling something. Yellow-red flame shot out of gun barrels from out on the prairie.

Then the shooting stopped.

Kiowa continued to shout, only this time he was yelling at the remuda, herding them back into the corral.

Sam Fortune tugged on his boots and joined him.

“Could you see who they were?” Kiowa asked.

“No . . . I was asleep, and I . . .”

“You raised up and shot the horse out from under the lead rider. I thought you'd put the second bullet through the man, but he sprinted for the plains.”

“What did I do? I'm still a little confused.”

“I heard them run the horses out of the corral, and I sprinted out of the tent. It looked like they would stampede right over the top of you. You waited until the last second, then you raised up and shot the lead horse. The remuda panicked at the sound of the Sharps and turned right back into the corral. The leader ran into the night to join his partners. I really thought you'd bring him down.”

“I'm not used to a single-shot. I couldn't figure out what was real and what was a dream.”

“Well, neither of us are goin' to do anymore dreamin' tonight. We better stand guard at the corral.”

Sam stared into the dark night. “You think they were Comanches?”

Kiowa looped the wire gate latch over the corral post. “The government claims there are no bands of Comanches out here.”

Sam stood on the bottom rail and peered at the dark shadows of nervous horses. “They also said they finished off Captain Bill Cole's Black Mesa gang twenty years ago, but some of them are still livin' up there stealin' horses. Ever' time the government states that a problem's solved, you can be assured it isn't.”

Kiowa climbed up on the rail beside Sam. “You're a cynical Johnny Reb. But I don't think it was Comanches. They would have killed us first and then took the horses. Are all the ponies accounted for?”

In the moonlight, Sam surveyed the remuda nervously pace from one side of the corral to the other, like a trained dance troupe. He eased the hammer down on the carbine and stepped back to the dirt. “Yeah—even the bay stallion. If a horse had to die tonight, why couldn't it have been the bay?”

The sun was straight above on a cloudless sky. Sam Fortune and Kiowa Fox squatted next to the dead horse at the noon campfire when Rocklin drove his wagon into the ranch. Kiowa poured him a blue-enameled, tin cup of coffee as he climbed down from the rig.

Rocklin's ever-present, black tie hung loosely around his neck, but the top button on his shirt remained fastened. His round crowned hat rested on the back of his head. “I see you got that one broke,” he pointed to the dead horse.

Kiowa handed Rocklin the coffee and grinned. “Yep. It's Sammy's new method. He calls it the ‘Sharps, .50-caliber approach to horse breakin'.'”

Rocklin stepped over and nudged the horse's shoulder with the tip of his dusty brown boot. “Is it one of mine?”

Fortune still squatted on his haunches next to the fire, biscuit in hand. He glanced over at the raven-black horse. “Nope.”

Rocklin slowly surveyed the ranch headquarters. “You had visitors, did you?”

“Yep.” When Sam stood, both thighs cramped. He hobbled around the fire trying to straighten his legs.

“Is that a new dance?” Rocklin chided.

Kiowa stared down at Fortune's boots. “Yep, it's called the ‘Too Old to Hit the Dirt That Often' promenade.”

Rocklin took a long swallow of coffee. “Say, were these visitors anybody I know?”

“That all depends,” Kiowa commented. “Do you know any horse thieves? I mean, besides me and Sam Fortune.”

Rocklin laughed and shook his head. “No, you're the lot. Hiring you two to break my ponies is sort of like hiring the James brothers to guard a bank. I heard some Apaches left the resettlement and started back to Arizona. They ended up in the Antelope Hills. It has the people of Antelope Flats scared stiff. Was it Indians that paid us a visit?”

“Couldn't even tell that,” Sam replied. “This horse wasn't shod—but then, neither are yours. The saddle was a McClellan—probably stolen from cavalry—and they toted carbines and revolvers. But they backed out when we returned fire. I've never heard of Apaches backin' away from a fight. Hard to figure.”

“When they heard Sammy's .50-caliber cannon, they decided they were out-gunned,” Kiowa added. “We trailed them this morning. Looks like three of 'em. They went west, dropped down into that dry creek bed, and then their trail gets lost. But any decent Indian could have stolen the whole cavvy without us even knowin' it . . . or scalped us first.”

Rocklin plucked up the coffeepot and refilled his cup. “I didn't expect to settle this land without a fight. We'd better drag that horse out of camp, before it stinks everything up.”

“We were hopin' you'd show up today,” Fortune said. “Reckon those drivin' horses on your wagon would do the job better than these mustangs.”

“You're probably right. I'll hitch him up behind the wagon and drag him over to one of those barrancas.”

Kiowa looped a thumb in his brown leather suspenders. “When are your twelve hundred beeves goin' to trot in here?”

“Now that, boys, has become a real mystery.” Rocklin scratched the back of his leather-tough neck. “I arranged to rendezvous with the herd between the north fork of the Canadian and the Cimarron Rivers. Then, I planned to lead them over here to the ranch. I camped there five days without seeing a soul. Finally, a big herd of agency beef headed for Montana came grazing through. They claimed my crew was at least two weeks ahead of them on the trail.”

“You mean they passed by and kept goin'?” Sam quizzed.

Rocklin's gray mustache drooped like a permanent frown. “My foreman has been up the trail seven times. I can't figure what he was thinking. The next morning I was about ready to head north, when several boys going home to San Antonio rode into camp. Said my whole herd and crew was in Dodge City.”

“Dodge? They pushed them all the way to Kansas?” Kiowa questioned.

“I reckon. Anyhow, now I've got to hightail it up to Dodge City and figure out what's going on. I didn't want to take the wagon, so I came back for a saddle horse. I hope I can get to Dodge before my crew breaks up and drifts back to south Texas. Every one of them agreed to work on the ranch.”

Sam pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through the graying, dirty hair. “Must have been lonesome sittin' out there waitin' for a herd that didn't show up.”

Rocklin stared out at the plains. The heat radiated off the fine, yellowish-orange dirt, giving the horizon a wavy look. “Reminds of one time I went all the way to Fort Worth to pick up my wife and daughter who were coming home on the train,” he mumbled.

Sam glanced over at Kiowa then back to Rocklin. “What happened?”

“They never showed up. My wife decided she didn't want to live in Texas or be married to me anymore, so she stayed with her kin in Tennessee. She just didn't bother telling me about it. That's the way I felt out on the prairie—like an absolute fool.” Rocklin tossed out the dregs at the bottom of his coffee cup and plunked it down on the rocks next to the cookfire.

“How about your daughter? How did she feel about all of that?” Sam pressed.

Rocklin's eyes lit up. “She's grown up now, of course. I do get to see her every so often. She's every bit as pretty as her mama. She lives up in Cheyenne City. When I have business in Denver I try to ride on up. Her husband owns the telephone company there. You boys ever use one of those telephone machines?”

Fortune shook his head. “I saw one in the warden's office at prison once, but I never used it.”

“I can't figure out how they can cram a voice into that wire,” Kiowa added.

“Nobody knows how they work,” Rocklin declared. “It's like a talking telegraph. Anyhow, Amanda—that's my daughter—married a man named Edgington, and they live in Cheyenne. At least, the last I heard, which was over a year ago. One of the reasons I'm pushing myself on this ranch is because I want to develop this place, and then, sometime before I cash in, I want to give it to her. What's the reason in tryin' something so foolhardy if it isn't to give it to your kid? You two will never accumulate much until you have someone to leave it to. Isn't that right?”

Fortune sipped the lukewarm coffee and eyed his ripped shirt. “Can't argue with you today, Mr. Rocklin.”

Kiowa stared out across the barren, high plains. “You might want to wait a few years before you send for your daughter. This land is still raw.”

“You got to have vision, boys! In my mind I can see hay fields and cattle herds, and a big ranch house, and—”

“Do you see any old horse thieves in that vision?” Kiowa interrupted.

Rocklin laughed. “You've got to find your own vision!”

Kiowa turned to Sam. “I think he means somethin' besides the end of a rope.”

“Mark yourself out some of this Public Land. I tell you, in five years or less it will be open to settlement.”

Fortune drug the toe of his boot across the dry, pale dirt. “It's a harsh land. It will be tough to survive out here for five years.”

Rocklin pulled a neatly folded, red bandanna out of the back of his pocket and wiped the sweat off his neck and forehead. “If you got a vision for the future, boys, you can pull through all sorts of tough times.”

Sam squinted his eyes in the light of the afternoon sun. “I'm afraid all I see out here is dust and alkali.”

“And a few horses in the corral,” Kiowa added.

Rocklin jammed his fingers into the back of his belt. “Now, tell me about my ponies. How many are ridable?”

“We've only got four left to break, but they all need to be rode,” Sam reported. “We were hoping to see that crew of yours.”

“I trust you didn't try to break that bay stallion,” Rocklin added. “He's a mean rascal and totally unridable. Two or three times while driving him up here, I thought about shooting him. But I reckoned I could keep him around for stud.”

Kiowa glanced over at Fortune. “Sammy gentled him right down.”

“He didn't buck you off and try to stomp you?” Rocklin questioned. “I can't believe you climbed on that horse.”

“I can't believe I climbed on him fourteen times,” Sam groaned.

Kiowa rode a prancing, red roan mare around the corral when the report of gunshot sounded from the north. He trotted over to Sam Fortune, who sat on the top of the corral rail.

“You surmise Rocklin found somethin' to hunt?” Kiowa asked.

The air felt hot and stagnant. Corral dust hung thick. Both men sported a yellow-dust hue.

Sam rubbed the sandy blond and gray whiskers on his unshaven chin. “He was goin' to drag that dead horse over to Stony Point. Could be he spotted an antelope over there, I suppose.”

“I won't mind some fresh game. I'm a little tired of salt pork and canned meat.” Kiowa circled the horse several rotations to the left.

“That's another good reason to have those beef cattle show up.” Sam stretched his arms and neck.

Kiowa circled the roan several rotations to the right. Suddenly two shots fired in rapid succession. Sam leaped down from the rail and grabbed the Sharps. Kiowa plucked up his holster and gun from the corral post and slung them over his shoulder. “Open the gate.”

Sam seized the cantle of Kiowa's saddle. “Is this roan ready to carry double?”

“I reckon we'll find out.”

Rocklin hunkered down on a pile of boulders the size of fat pumpkins not far from the wagon. His hat was pushed back, and sweat dripped off his face. He clutched his left arm.

“I went and got myself snakebit, boys. Get me a tourniquet and a knife,” he hollered.

In the rocks just below him lay the headless remains of a five-foot rattlesnake. Fortune cut off a saddle string as he dismounted and yanked it tight around Rocklin's upper arm. Kiowa ripped open the white cotton shirt, then sliced a bloody
X
into the rancher's arm. He sucked the wound and spit half a dozen times.

“I've got a fairly clean bandanna in my back pocket,” Rocklin muttered.

When Kiowa finished, Sam tied the red bandanna around Rocklin's bleeding arm. “You up to goin' back yet?”