Authors: Janet Dailey
A series of discordant notes was played on the harmonica, drawing her glance to Woolie sitting crosslegged on the ground with Webb on his knee. He was patiently attempting to teach Webb to play a song on the harmonica. One of the
vaqueros
had whittled a wooden horse, which little Arthur was galloping over the ground.
Her coffeecup was empty, so Lorna refilled it from the pot warming by the fire. She took a quick sip of the bitterly black coffee and wandered over by the chuck wagon, where Rusty was working. He glanced at her, taking in the cup in her hand.
“Thought you didn't like my coffee,” he said.
“I guess I've acquired a taste for it.” She shrugged lightly and smiled.
“It seems like old times to see you struttin' around in a man's pair of pants.” His glance raked the lower half of her body, a twinkle lighting his eyes. “You filled 'em out a bit more. The shirt, too. There's no mistakin' you for a boy anymore.”
“I should hope not.” Her laughter was soft, not minding his teasing remarks.
“Speakin' of boys, those two of yours are havin themselves a high time.”
“I know.” She cast a fond look at the two boys. “They're convinced this roundup is being staged for their entertainment.”
“That's fer sure.” Rusty seemed to test the air, distracted by a watchfulness that was wakened inside of him. “It sure is still.”
Lorna looked at the sky, clear except for some clouds on the far horizon. “I hope it doesn't rain in the night. The boys want to sleep outside like the rest of you.” They'd brought along a tent, a small one erected on the edge of the camp circle.
“If it does, you can always throw 'em in the cooney,” Rusty said. “They'll stay high and dry there. Slept in it myself on many a rainy night.”
“Don't tell Webb that. He'll insist on trying it out,” Lorna warned, then spied Benteen walking into camp with Ely Stanton. “I'll talk to you later.”
As she angled across camp, the two men stopped to talk about something. Lorna could tell by Benteen's expression that the subject was a serious one.
“Is something wrong?” she asked when she reached them.
When Benteen opened his mouth to speak, she knew he was about to deny it. He held her gaze for a second; then the shutters came down.
“So far, the tally is running about five thousand head short,” he admitted.
The number staggered her. She knew the Indians had
run off some cattle, but this was more than “some.” “Do you think the Indians are responsible?” She was incredulous. “But what would they do with that many? I thought they only stole what they needed to eat.”
“That's what they've done in the past,” Benteen said.
“It's for sure if they're stealin' to sell or trade for goods, somebody's puttin' 'em up to it.” Ely shook his head. “It isn't like 'em to do things on this kind of scale. A dozen head of cattle would keep them supplied with firewater all winter, and probably a couple of warm blankets, too.”
“Maybe it isn't the Indians,” Lorna suggested.
“It's Indian sign we've been cuttin',” Ely said.
“Remember when Shorty was delirious from the fever?” Lorna turned to Benteen. “He mumbled something about a white man.”
“I asked him about it later,” he admitted. “When he was blacking out, he thought he saw a white man riding with the Indians, but he was sure he had just imagined it.”
“What if he didn't?” she asked.
“What white man would be riding with Indians?” Ely didn't put much stock in the idea. “For that matter, what white man would the Indians let ride with them?”
For a long minute his questions went unanswered. “There might be one,” Benteen offered finally with a thoughtful look.
“Who?” Ely frowned.
“That ex-buffalo hunter up on the Missouri that's been trading with the Indians. His name's Sallie. Bull Giles knows him.” The last was added absently, his mind already running ahead.
“Bull knows him?” she repeated. Benteen had said it as if it meant something, but she didn't see any significance in it.
It was possible there wasn't any, but Benteen was recalling the scene in Fat Frank's place when the renegade's name had first been mentioned. Bull Giles
had been there with Loman Janes. Janes was the Ten Bar foreman. The Ten Bar needed water and range. In Texas, Judd Boston's tactics had been to overstock and drift off a few head of his father's cattle. The aim had been to put his father in a financial bind, which had ultimately worked. Was he making a similar but more subtle play here in Montana for part of the Triple C range?
Benteen tried to dismiss the thought with a vague shake of his head. It wouldn't workânot with the Canadian beef contract he had. This five thousand head was a substantial loss, but he could financially weather twice that number. It would merely set back his timetable of expansion. Besides, Bull Giles was working for his mother.
“Is that coffee any good?” His arm curved naturally around Lorna's waist. “I could use a cup.”
“It's Rusty's coffee, if that answers your question.” She wasn't concerned that he hadn't told her what he was thinking or explained the reference to Bull Giles. The situation had changed. She was confident that, in time, he would tell her. It was Ely's presence that had kept him silent, not hers.
As they walked to the fire, Woolie was playing a melancholy version of “Shenandoah” to show Webb how the harmonica was supposed to sound when it was played right. When the last note wavered into the night, Webb eagerly wanted his turn. Lorna couldn't help smiling at the way he tried so hard to copy Woolie, right down to wiggling his hand, but he was either sharp or flat and never on key.
“Why don't you give it up?” Zeke protested. “You said you was gonna make a first-rate roper out of him, Woolie. He sure can't hurt a man's ears with a rope.”
“Wanta bet?” Woolie laughed. “Go get the rope I made ya, kid, and rope that critter over there.”
The plaited rope was shorter and narrower than what the cowboys used. It was little-boy-sized, especially for Webb. The cowboys had been instructing him in the
rudiments of the art of roping for over a year. He had the idea, although most of the time his coordination was not all that good.
Encouraged by the rest of the cowboys, Webb got his rope and set out in pursuit of an unusually slow-running Zeke. The quiet scene was destroyed by shouts and laughter and misthrown loops. Arthur tried to join in the fun, but he kept tripping over cowboys' legs.
So much attention was focused on the little boy chasing the bowlegged cowboy that the restless stirrings from the remuda went unnoticed. With coffeecups in hand, Lorna and Benteen were standing to one side of the fire, laughing with everyone else at the antics of their sons.
The
vaquero
Ramon shouted a warning, breaking across the laughter to bring the camp alert. Benteen heard the pounding of hooves and the snorting whicker of panicked horses an instant before the remuda plunged out of the gloaming and charged into camp. He felt Lorna's instinctive movement toward the children and grabbed her, throwing her out of the path of the stampeding horses. Whipping off his hat, he waved it wildly at the herd and whistled shrilly between his teeth to divert them. The ones in front shied from him, but they were crowded by the others. It was a churning mass of horseflesh and dodging cowboys.
“Indians!” someone shouted. “They're running off the cattle!”
Shots were being exchanged opposite Benteen's position. It was the side closest to the herd, which meant the men were firing at the raiders and being fired on. The first rush of the horses had passed, leaving gaps that would allow him to cross to the fight.
Stampeding the remuda had been a diversionary tactic to create chaos in the camp while the cattle were run off. Benteen sent one glance at Lorna, huddled tightly against a wagon wheel. Her gaze was frantically searching the confusion for Webb and Arthur. He was saying a silent prayer for them himself, but he knew his
men. They would have put the boys' safety over their own lives.
“They got the boys out of the way. Don't w about them!” he shouted to Lorna. “Just stay w you are.”
Waving his hat at an oncoming horse, Benteen dodged forward when it shied. He managed to run through the tangle of bedrolls and saddles, trying to keep one eye on the loose horses and the other on the fight in progress.
“Grab some of those horses!” he shouted to Vince Garvey. They couldn't let all the horses scatter, or they wouldn't be able to mount a pursuit.
The camp was crossed. Benteen reached the four cowboys, returning the gunfire of a fleeing band of Indians. He was conscious of the weight of the pistol in his hand without being aware he'd drawn it. The hat was back on his head. The air was tainted with the smell of gunsmoke. He had time to snap off two shots before the raiders were out of range.
Automatically he reached for more bullets to reload. “Start throwin' saddles on those horses!” He threw the order at the camp, but a half-dozen cowboys were already doing that very thing. Benteen glanced to see who was with him as he pushed new bullets into the empty chambers. Barnie was nearest him. Both turned simultaneously, heading for the horses at a running trot. “What about the boys? Do you know if they're okay?” Benteen asked as he shoved his pistol back in its holster.
“Saw Zeke scoop up Webb. I think Rusty grabbed the little tyke,” Barnie answered. “One of them raiders with the Injuns had a beard and a buffalo coat.”
Benteen cursed himself for exposing Lorna and the boys to this kind of danger, only there hadn't been any reason to suspect the Indians would raid a manned herd. It had seemed logical to believe his family would be safer in the company of twenty armed cowboys than left alone at the cabin. But he hadn't counted on the
Indian raids being instigated by a white renegade, either.
Only eight of the horses from the scattered remuda had been caught. No time was wasted sorting out saddles and owners. Zeke handed Benteen the reins to a big Roman-nosed chestnut the instant he entered the camp.
“Where's Webb?” Benteen stepped a foot into the stirrup.
“Just returned him to his mamma,” Zeke answered.
Benteen's gaze swept the camp, a jumble of men on foot and on horseback. He was briefly torn by a desire to make certain his family was unharmed, yet each minute's delay meant the cattle were being driven that much farther. If he wanted to recapture the bulk of his herd, immediate pursuit was imperative. It was halfdark now.
The decision was made before his boot found the other stirrup. “Let's go.” He gave the order, but it was his action the men followed, letting him take the lead on the big chestnut.
When Benteen made that mad dash between horses to the other side of camp, Lorna scrambled to her feet and pressed herself flat against the chuck wagon. There was so much running, shouting, and shooting going on that she couldn't separate it all.
The worst of it was over in a flurry of moments that seemed eternally long. The confusion went on as cowboys snared the stragglers from the remuda and began swinging the big, heavy saddles like they were pillows.
Lorna pushed into the chaos, frantic to find Webb and Arthur. Shoving the bunched haunches of nervous horses out of the way and ducking the tossing heads of others, she forced her way to the place where she had last seen the boys. Everyone was running, moving in and out of her vision. She was breathing in panicked breaths and struggling to control it.
“Here, ma'am,” a voice said.
She hardly had time to recognize Zeke before he was thrusting Webb into her arms. It was relief that collapsed her knees rather than the four-and-a-half-year-old's weight. Her fingers gripped his arm while her hand trembled over his face and hair. He had a stunned, wide-eyed look at all this commotion of horses, riders, and gunshots.
“Are you okay?” Her voice trembled, although she tried to appear very calm. There was a lump in her throat and the dampness of tears in her eyes. She kept them open wide.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I wasn't scared, Mom. Honest.”
“Of course you weren't.” Her smile quivered.
“Were you?” he wondered.
“A little,” she admitted, and hugged him with a mother's fierceness, then forced herself to draw back. “Where's your brother? Do you know?”
He shook his head. “I dropped my rope. Zeke said I could find it later.”
“Yes, later.” Lorna nodded and began looking around. “First we have to find your brother.”
The stampeding horses had scattered the campfire, taking away the light it would have afforded. Behind her, there was the digging of hooves, and Lorna glanced over her shoulder to see eight riders gallop into the graying night. She guessed Benteen was with them, although she couldn't distinguish the riders.
Their departure left a degree of quiet in the camp as the remaining cowboys attempted to restore some kind of order and search for horses that might have lingered nearby. Lorna gripped Webb's hand tightly as she stood up. She took a step, not certain where to look first for Arthur.
When she saw Rusty moving woodenly toward her carrying the child in his arms, a second wave of relief flooded through her. As he came closer, she sensed something wasn't right. Rusty's face was nearly as
white as his whiskers. There was a sunken, hollow grief in his eyes. A pounding fear began to beat in her, growing louder and louder with each step that brought him nearer.
Her glance fell to the boy-child lying so motionless in his arms. His eyes were closed, his face innocent with sleep, but he didn't have his finger in his mouth. She tried to smileâtried to say his name and wake him up.
“I'm sorry.” Rusty's voice wavered hoarsely. “It was a stray shot ⦠or a ricochet.” A tear slipped from his eye as he bowed his head, his shoulders shaking silently.