The Last Trail Drive (10 page)

“Yessir.” He looked over Clint's shoulder. “Coffee, Boss?”

“Yeah, thanks, Spud,” Flood said.

The cook poured a cup and handed it to Flood, who nodded his thanks, again.

“Ryan get off?” Flood asked.

“Yeah.”

“What are you so sour about?”

Clint looked at Flood.

“I'm thinking this should have been something I did myself.”

“I need you here.”

“I know,” Clint said, “but if something happens to Ryan . . .”

“You give him a choice, or an order?”

“I gave him a choice.”

“Then he knows what he's doin',” Flood said. “I wouldn't worry about it.”

They drank their coffee in silence for a while, and then Clint said, “There is something else I'm worried about, though.”

“What's that?”

Clint looked at Flood.

“I'm worried that there's still something you're not telling me.”

Flood stared back at Clint, then looked down at his coffee cup.

“Spud?” he yelled.

“Boss?”

“We need some more coffee.”

“Comin' up.”

“And bring out that jug I give ya.”

“Comin', Boss.”

Spud came over with a big cast-iron coffee pot, and a bottle of whiskey that was still three-quarters full.

“My private stock,” Flood told Clint.

Spud poured the coffee, and then topped it off with a finger of whiskey each.

“Thanks, Spud,” Flood said.

“Sure, Boss.”

Spud walked off with the pot and the jug.

“Drink up,” Flood said to Clint.

“You thinking if I'm drunk enough I won't be mad at you when you tell me?” Clint asked.

“Tell me what?”

“Whatever it is you're going to tell me that needed whiskey.”

“Maybe I needed the whiskey.”

“Whoever needed it,” Clint said, “what's going on, Hank?”

“What makes you think there's somethin' I ain't tellin' you?” Flood asked.

“Because no matter how I look at it, it'd still be easy for somebody to stampede this herd,” Clint said. “Then they could pick off whatever men weren't trampled. So there's something else going on here, something other than keeping you from completing this drive.”

Flood studied Clint for a moment, and then sipped his spiked coffee before speaking.

“No, it's still about makin' me fail,” Flood said, “but it's got to look like I failed on my own. See, Morgan is lookin' not only to stop me, but to humiliate me, too.”

“They could still cause a stampede,” Clint said. “It's happened on a lot of drives.”

“I know it,” Flood said. “And they still might try, but maybe they got a few other tricks up their sleeves, first.”

“Like killing Trevor.”

“Yeah, like that.”

Clint studied Flood, and then said, “Hank, I can't help feeling like I've been suckered.”

“Maybe ya have, just a little, Clint,” Flood said, “but damn it, I need you. Some of these men don't care what my reputation is, but they'll care about yours. They'll do their jobs and maybe they won't run off at the first sign of trouble for fear that you'll go after them.”

“So I'm here just to scare them into working, huh?” Clint asked.

“Maybe it started out that way,” Flood said, “but now I need you. With Trevor gone, I needed a man I could trust. I mean, really trust to get the job done. Even if . . .”

“Even if what?”

“Even if I don't make it,” Flood said. “I don't care what happens, Clint, this herd has to make it to Fort Laramie. You gotta promise me that.”

“All right, Hank,” Clint said. “I promise.”

Clint looked out into the darkness, again.

“Okay,” he said, “we'll know more when Ryan gets back here tomorrow night. For now let's just double up on night duty and tell the men to keep alert.”

“Keep alert for what?” Flood asked.

“They don't have to know that,” Clint said. “We'll just tell 'em to do their jobs.”

 

Two of the six men who were riding with Santiago Jones for his boss, Larry Morgan, sat by their fire drinking coffee and looking at Jones, who was sitting off by himself, as he usually did.

“So, what's his story?” Zeke Sterling asked.

“Whataya mean?” Chris Dawkins asked.

“Well, they say he's a half-breed.”

“So?”

“So does that mean he's part white, part Indian?” Zeke asked. “Or part white part Mexican?”

Chris thought a moment, then said, “I dunno. Maybe he's part Indian and part Mex. What's the difference?”

“I don't like half-breeds,” Zeke said. “Can't trust 'em to pick a side, ya know? Ya never know when they'll turn on ya.”

“Well, why don't you go over there and ask 'im, then?” Chris asked. “Tell him you don't like half-breeds and see what he does.”

“Are you crazy?” Zeke said. “I don't wanna get myself killed.”

“Then keep yer trap shut,” Chris said. “Drink your coffee.”

 

Santiago Jones had allowed his men to build a fire each night for two reasons. One, the smell of their camp would be swallowed up by the smells coming from the trail drive's camp. Second, he didn't really care if Flood and his men realized that Jones and his men were there. It would give the old trail boss something to think about.

Morgan's orders were that Flood and his steers didn't make it to Fort Laramie. He didn't care where along the way Jones stopped them, as long as he stopped them. And Jones didn't care what Morgan's reasons were. He was getting paid for this job, and that was all he cared about.

He might have made a move against the herd earlier—perhaps stampeding them—had Henry Flood not replaced Jack Trevor with the Gunsmith, Clint Adams. The presence of Adams made this job much more interesting to Jones.

The time of the trail drives and big herds may have been passing, but even more important to Jones, the time of the legends was passing. And any man who put an end to a legend would be remembered as a legend, himself.

So while he was determined to do the job he was being paid to do, he was going to do it in a way—and at a time—that suited his own purposes, as well.

Clint used the next day to see how his experiment with moving the men around was going. But it was Flood who noticed the difference much before Clint did.

“Did you put Daltry on point?” he asked, halfway through the day.

“Yes, I moved a few of the men around. I wanted to see how well rounded they were.”

“Well, he ain't,” Flood said. “The man is scared to death to be out in front of this herd. Put him back on the flank.”

“You're the boss.”

Flood nodded, and then peeled off to ride toward the back of the herd.

 

During the course of the day Flood returned to Clint to order more changes. Before the day was over, men had been put back where they had been before Clint moved them. Flood had undone everything Clint had done.

If this had been Clint's regular job he would have bitched at Flood that night. There was no way he would have been able to do this job if Flood was going to undo everything. But this was Flood's baby, and Clint was just along for the ride, so he didn't object to Flood exercising his authority.

As Flood had said, Daltry was scared stiff to be in front of the herd and was much more comfortable riding flank—as was his compadre, Roland.

As they got on toward late in the day, Clint had to admit that Flood had done the right thing. The herd was moving along much better and strays were kept to a minimum.

 

That night the men were in a good mood, laughing and arguing good-naturedly while they ate. Clint and Flood sat together, quietly eating Spud Johnson's latest concoction of potatoes, meat, onion rings, and apples, which he called Range Riders Stew.

“You thinkin' about Ryan?” Flood asked.

“Yes.”

“Me, too,” Flood said. “Supposed to be back in twenty-four hours.”

“That still gives him three,” Clint said.

“I know,” Flood said, “but I was hopin' he'd be back before then.”

“So was I.” Clint put his empty plate down, picked up his coffee cup. “I knew I should have gone myself.”

“Can't start blamin' yerself at this point,” Flood said. “Besides, I needed you here.”

“I couldn't have done much more harm, if I'd been gone today.”

“Don't sulk,” Flood said. “So I had to make a few changes. So what?”

“I'm not sulking,” Clint said. “I'm just saying I probably would have done more good—”

“Forget it,” Flood said, cutting him off. “What's done is done. Ryan'll be back later. I'm gonna get me some more of this stew.” Flood stood up. “Best idea you ever had, hiring Spud—and the men agree.”

Clint agreed, too. Every supper they'd eaten so far had been a hit with everyone. Spud Johnson sure belonged in a chuckwagon more than he did behind the bar in a saloon.

Clint decided to get some more stew for himself, too, before the rest of the men started crowding around for seconds.

“I wonder what was goin' on today?” Al Swisher said aloud.

“Whataya mean?” Daltry asked.

“I mean with Flood and Adams,” Swisher said. “Adams makes some changes, and the boss changes 'em back.”

“I think they was tryin' ta prove who the real boss was,” Eddie Pratt said.

“Naw,” Roland said. “Not Adams.”

“Whataya mean?” Daltry asked, again.

“Adams don't care who's boss,” Roland said. “He helped me and Daltry load the buckboard at Doan's store the mornin' we left.”

“And he takes his turn every night,” Swisher pointed out.

“I heard them talkin' one night,” Roland said. “Adams is just along to help Flood out, because Trevor got hisself killed in Doan's Crossing.”

“Yeah, what was that about?” Swisher asked.

“Nobody knows,” Daltry said.

“Maybe Jack slept with the wrong girl,” Swisher said.

“I don't know,” Pratt said. “I think somethin's goin' on that we don't know about.”

“I don't wanna know about it,” Daltry said. “That's why there's bosses, so they can worry about stuff like that.”

“Damn, this stew is good,” Swisher said, changing the subject. “That new Cookie is great . . .”

Roy Sobel, Bud Coleman, and some of the others were out with the herd. They'd be in later for their supper, changing places with some of these men.

Sitting off by himself, Andy Dirker kept quiet the whole time.

By morning Chip Ryan had not returned. Clint and Flood were not happy. They scowled at breakfast, didn't discuss the matter. They both knew the chances were good the man was dead. Larry Morgan's men must have caught him and killed him.

Finally, breakfast done and Spud starting to load the wagon, Flood looked at Clint.

“What do we wanna do?” he asked.

“Let's get the herd moving,” Clint said. “Once we're under way I'm going to go looking for Ryan. I'll slip away, using the herd to hide my movements.

“You think that's wise?” Flood asked.

“I sent him out there, Hank,” Clint said. “I'm going to go out and find out what happened to him. And while I'm, out there, I'll have a look around.” He pointed at Flood. “And I can promise you I'll be back by morning.”

“With you gone I'll be two men short,” Flood said. “Ol' Bud Coleman is gonna have to pull his weight, today.”

“Let him handle the remuda,” Clint said.

“That's a good idea,” Flood said. “Okay, go ahead. We'll manage.”

“I'm not going to let you know when I'm going,” Clint said.

“I think I'll be able to tell you're gone,” Flood said, sourly.

“You got a better idea, Hank?” Clint asked.

“Ah,” Flood said, “I ain't mad at you, Clint. It's that goddamn Morgan. He just couldn't let me have this, could he? He's gotta make it hard.”

“Well,” Clint said, “maybe before this is all over, we can make things hard for him.”

“Now that is somethin' I'd like to see,” Flood said.

They saddled their horses, and as they mounted up Flood said, “You watch yerself and get your ass back here tonight.”

“That's a promise,” Clint said.

 

Clint was still hoping that Ryan would show up on his own, but by noon he hadn't, and Clint decided to make his move.

It wasn't unusual, during the course of the day, for a cowboy to peel off and chase down some strays, bringing them back to the herd. Or spotting some wild strays and collecting them to add to the herd. So Clint simply drifted off to one side, into the brush, and then just kept going.

Once he put some distance between himself and the herd he turned to check his back trail. If they were being watched and someone had noticed his move, they might have sent someone after him.

Eventually, he decided no one was following him. He turned Eclipse and started riding back the way the herd had come. Luckily, ten or fifteen miles a day is as much as a herd can cover each day. Retracing that with Eclipse would not take very long. He was going to circle, though, so it would take him a little longer. He wanted to get back to where they had camped two nights ago, which would be where Ryan had left them. From there he'd try to retrace Ryan's steps and find out what happened to him. Meanwhile, he'd do what he'd sent Ryan out to do in the first place, and see if they were being followed.