The Last Trail Drive (9 page)

“I will decide what gets done, and when,” he said. “Understood?”

“Yeah, sure,” Lacey said, and Peters nodded. “You're callin' the shots, Jones.”

“Yes,” Jones said, “I am.”

He walked down the hill. The other two men looked at each other, shrugged, and followed.

Clint decided to take a turn watching the herd before he turned in. He wanted the men to see that he would be doing the work as well as supervising them.

The sky was cloudless, the moon almost full. It was still spring, although late. Most trail drives would have started before now, but most trail drives were gone.

He sat high in his saddle, watching the surroundings rather than the herd. Although there was bright moonlight, he still couldn't see anything on the surrounding hilltops. He was going to have to tell Spud to pick campsites on flatter ground. That would make it harder to watch them.

He heard a horse approaching and turned his attention to it. It was Roland, one of the men he'd helped load the buckboard back in Doan's Crossing.

“Nice night,” Roland said.

“Good night for a stampede,” Clint said.

“What?”

“It's quiet,” Clint said. “Wouldn't take much to spook this herd.”

Clint had the feeling that both Daltry and Roland were kind of new to the job. They seemed to know what they were doing, but they just didn't seem to have been doing it as long as some of the others.

“W-what would cause that?” Roland asked, thereby admitting his lack of experience.

“Almost anything,” Clint said. “Big cats, snakes, shots, it all depends on how the cows in front act.”

“In front?”

Clint nodded.

“The natural leaders usually gravitate to the front of the herd, so the rest of the herd goes the way they go.”

“Geez.”

Roland had been riding flank the first two days.

“I'm going to move you to the point, Roland,” Clint said. “Give you a chance to see what I'm talking about.”

“Uh, we already got men ridin' point, Boss.”

“That's okay,” Clint said. “I'm going to make some changes from time to time. Give everybody a chance to move around.”

“Uh-huh.” Roland didn't look too happy with the news.

“Don't worry,” Clint said. “By the time this drive is through, you'll know every job inside and out.”

“Um, okay.”

“And I'll know every man on this drive,” Clint added, “inside and out.”

The next morning Clint made wholesale changes. He left the drivers where they were. They usually worked in pairs on either side of the herd, kept the steers from spreading out too wide. But he moved flankers to ride drag, drag riders to the point, and pointers back to drag just to see how they'd perform. He left the remuda and the hoodlum wagon alone for the moment.

Flood and Clint roamed the herd, watching the steers and the men at the same time. They also watched their back trail and hillside they passed along the way.

At one point Clint came up alongside Flood and asked, “Who do you trust the most?”

“You.”

“Besides me,” Clint said, and then added quickly, “and besides yourself.”

Flood thought for a moment.

“Bud Coleman,” he said. “He's ridden with me before.”

“Coleman,” Clint said. “I know who he is. Tall man, in his forties?”

“Sits his horse kinda crooked, after all these years,” Flood said. “He's pretty much in pain all the time.”

“What from?”

“Bad hip,” Flood said. “Got thrown a few years back, landed on it.”

“You know, I noticed we had somebody who was struggling to keep up. Why don't we let him drive a wagon?” Clint asked.

“Because he's a trail driver and that's what he wants to do,” Flood said. “He don't care how much it hurts.”

“Well, maybe I can give him something to do that won't require so much cutting and turning.”

“Like what?”

“Like checking to see if we really are being watched,” Clint said.

“I ain't sure about that,” Flood said.

“About what?”

“I don't think he'd be up to that.”

“What are you telling me, Hank?”

“We're carryin' Bud, Clint,” Flood admitted. “I wanted him along on this drive, but he ain't really doin' us much good.”

“Okay, then,” Clint said, “who's the second man you trust the most?”

 

During the course of the day, Clint watched Bill Coleman and saw what Flood was talking about. The man was so intent on not falling off his horse that he barely did any work at all. He would have been so much better off driving one of the wagons, but his pride would probably have hurt more than his hip did.

Flood came up with another name, a man called Chip Ryan. He said he'd used Ryan on a couple of drives, but that the man had a lot of other talents.

“What kind of talents?”

“You'll have to ask him,” Flood said. “I don't know which ones he'd want to admit to.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “I'll do it at chow tonight.”

So as the camp filled with the wonderful smells of Spud's supper, Clint approached Chip Ryan, who was sitting with some of the other hands. They all stopped talking as Clint approached.

“' Evenin', Boss,” one of them said.

“Good evening,” Clint said. “Which one of you is Ryan?”

“That's me.” A red-haired man in his thirties stepped forward. “What can I do for you, Boss?”

“You can come and eat with me,” Clint said. “I have something to talk to you about.”

Ryan looked confused.

“Am I gettin' fired?” he asked.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Clint said. “I just have somethin' I want you to do for me.”

“Like what?”

“We'll talk about it over supper,” Clint said. “Join me by the chuckwagon in ten minutes.”

“Yessir.”

Clint turned and left, heard the conversation erupt behind him.

“Wonder what he wants you to do?” somebody asked.

“And why he picked you?” another said.

Let them wonder, he thought.

 

He joined Flood by the fire.

“I've asked Ryan to come and eat with us.”

“With you,” Flood said. “I'll take my plate over there, let you talk to him alone.”

“All right.”

“I hope you'll be able to trust him, Clint,” Flood said.

“Yes,” Clint said. “So do I.”

Chip Ryan got his chow from Spud Johnson, then walked over to where Clint was sitting with his plate and coffee.

“Pull up a crate,” Clint said.

Ryan sat down, his movements very tentative.

“Relax,” Clint said. “I told you you're not getting fired. Eat your supper.”

Spud had created a combination of bacon, beans, and potatoes that lived up to his name. There were also some fresh biscuits that just about melted in your mouth.

“Flood tells me you're trustworthy, Ryan,” Clint said. “What do you say?”

“I do my job,” Ryan said.

“He seems to think you have other talents, though,” Clint said. “You don't spend all your time working cattle.”

“I've done other things,” Ryan admitted, still not comfortable with the situation.

“Like what?”

“A little bit of everything,” Ryan said.

“Okay, let me get to the point, Chip,” Clint said. “Can you handle a gun?”

“Well . . . yeah. I've worn a badge a time or two, was a bounty hunter for a year or two. I can hit what I shoot at.”

“How good are you on a horse?”

“Real good.”

“Can you ride somebody's back trail without them seeing you?”

“Well, sure, but—”

“I think we're being followed,” Clint said, “or watched. I want somebody to lay back and find out for sure. Is that something you think you could do?”

“That's what this is about?” Ryan asked.

“That's it.”

He stood up.

“I'm gonna get some more of this chow. I'll be right back.”

Clint watched as Spud spooned more food into Ryan's plate, and then the man came back, sat down, and started eating with gusto.

“You just about ruined my supper, Mr. Adams,” Ryan said. “I didn't know what you were gonna say to me. Now that I know, I can enjoy my food.”

“Well, I wasn't looking to ruin your appetite, Chip,” Clint said. “I told you your job was safe.”

“Yeah, well . . .”

“Can we talk about it now?”

“Sure, Mr. Adams,” Ryan said. “I ain't especially fond of herdin' cattle. I was just doin' this for the money, and because it'd gimme time to decide what I wanted to do after.”

“Well, what I want you to do is simple,” Clint said. “You have to do it without being seen. If you don't think you can—”

“If I don't wanna be seen,” Ryan said, cutting him off, “I don't get seen.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “I suggest you circle around for miles, then come back. That way if there's somebody, there you'll come up behind them. Even if they do see you, they won't connect you with the herd if you're coming at them from behind.”

“Sounds good,” he said. “When do you want me to go?”

“Well, that's the other thing,” Clint said to the younger man. “Can you ride at night without breaking your neck?”

Ryan smiled.

“No problem.”

 

After Ryan went back to the other men—with instructions not to tell them what he was doing—Flood came back over to Clint.

“What's the story?”

“He'll go out tonight, circle around, and see if we're being watched.”

“Then what?”

“Then he'll come back and tell us,” Clint said. “Is there anything distinctive about this fellow Morgan? I mean, if Ryan comes back and describes him will you know him?”

“Morgan's normal-lookin',” Flood said, “but Jones, now there's another story.

“So if he comes back and describes Jones . . .”

“Oh yeah,” Flood said, “I'll know him.”

“Okay, then.”

Clint sipped his coffee and stared out into the distance.

“What's on your mind?”

“If we are being followed, and it's Morgan's men, and the point is to see that you don't finish this drive, why not just stampede the herd?”

“I dunno,” Flood said. “Maybe they're worried some of my men would get killed.”

“You really think that's a worry for Morgan?” Clint asked.

“No,” Flood said, after a moment “I don't think that, at all.”

After dark Clint walked with Chip Ryan to where the horses were picketed, watched while the man saddled his horse.

“You sure you want to do this, Ryan?” Clint asked.

“You ain't tryin' ta talk me out of it, are ya, Boss?” Ryan asked.

“No,” Clint said. “I just want you to know what you're getting into.”

“All I'm doin' is takin' a ride,” Ryan said, “and a look see. What harm can come from that?”

“None at all,” Clint said.

Ryan smiled and mounted up.

“Just don't step in any chuckholes while you're at it,” Clint said.

“Ol' Stony here is as surefooted as they come,” Ryan said. “You don't have to worry about him steppin' wrong.”

“That's good,” Clint said. “I hope to see you this time tomorrow, Ryan.”

“Twenty-four hours oughtta be enough, Boss,” Ryan said. “Just have some of Cookie's coffee ready for me.”

The men had already taken to calling Spud Johnson “Cookie.”

“It'll be ready,” Clint said.

Ryan nodded and rode out into the dark.

 

When Clint returned to the fire, Spud Johnson handed him a cup of coffee.

“Thanks, Spud.”

“Somethin' wrong, Boss?” Spud asked.

“What makes you ask that?”

Spud shrugged.

“I just got a feelin'.”

“Well, there's nothing for you to worry about.”

“That's good,” Spud said. “I don't want nothin' to go wrong with this job.”

“Just worry about keeping the men fed, Spud,” Clint said.