The Palo Duro Trail

Chapter 7

Jubal Flagg, along with Manuel Chavez and Don Horton, rode up to the herd late the next afternoon, to find Dag and his men holding the herd on a patch of grass only two miles from where the cattle had been on the previous day under Barry Matlee’s supervision.

“I want this herd to start moving as soon as the sun sets,” Flagg said, as he stepped down from his horse Ranger, a tall black Missouri trotter that had been gelded.

“But Matlee and his cowhands won’t be back until tomorrow,” Dag said.

“I don’t give a damn,” Flagg said. “This herd is moving tonight. Barry can catch up with us. We’ll leave a wide enough trail.”

“We’re not out of grass here.”

“No, but you want to build this herd up, Dag, and we’re going to start tonight. I want you to give me two of your dumbest cowhands, right after dark. They’ll come with me, Don and Manny.”

“What do you aim to do, Jubal?”

“I’m going to teach them something, and then they can teach the rest of your hands. We’re, by God, going to build the damnedest herd that ever left the Caprock, and drive the sons of bitches up the Palo Duro.”

Flagg was an imposing figure. He stood a shade over six feet tall, with shoulders that were as wide as an ox yoke. Square-jawed, clean-shaven, he had dark brown eyes that were like twin gun barrels. His face was chiseled to a lean hardness that matched the rest of his body. His tan was deep, weathered like the soil that lined the Palo Duro Canyon, dark as old bronze. He wore a crumpled, weather-beaten felt hat and carried a Colt .44/40 on his hip. A big Sharps Yellow Boy rifle jutted from the scabbard attached to his saddle. And Dag knew he had two other pistols in his saddle bags, a Smith & Wesson .32, a belly gun, and another Colt .44, which matched the one he carried.

He wore a light blue chambray shirt, heavy duck trousers, and a red bandanna around his neck. A string to a sack of makings dripped from his shirt pocket, and he constantly chewed on a twist of strong tobacco, which he could spit, when chewed, with accuracy for a distance of at least ten feet. He took a pocketknife from his pants pocket and cut off a chunk of twist and slid it into the side of his mouth as he looked at the cattle grazing all around them.

Three riders circled the herd at a leisurely pace, while other hands worked on their tack and began to shake out bedrolls.

Flagg spat a plume of tobacco. “They won’t need those bedrolls tonight, Dag,” he said. “And you tell Fingers to feed ’em light tonight and be ready to move ten miles ahead of the herd right after he’s served the vittles. We’ll breakfast at the Foster ranch come morning.”

“You give me a lot of orders, Jubal.”

“That’s what you hired me for, Dag. Did you bring the cash?”

“Yep,” Dag said. “Scratched up all I could. Had to have Laura empty her cookie jar.”

“Give me some now, then.”

“How much?”

“Fifty or sixty ought to do it for now.”

“What for?”

“I’ll be buying some cattle along the way, just so we stay within the law.”

Dag counted out sixty dollars and handed the bills to Flagg. Jubal folded them and stuck them in the left front pocket of his trousers.

“Now hop to it, Dag. I want to see those two men I’m going to ride with tonight.”

Dag thought of whom he might tell to go with Flagg. He had a pair of fairly new hands he thought would fit the bill.

Jimmy Gough was still wrestling with the growing remuda. Gough had brought in a dozen horses that morning, then had left to bring in a half dozen more. Matlee was supposed to bring more in the morning, but they still needed to find more that could make the long trip. Dag wanted at least sixty-five horses, and they all had to be sound, freshly shod, with good bottoms and none lame or otherwise afflicted. The men were close, but needed a few more, which Matlee had promised to bring the next day. Jimmy was putting on hobbles with the help of the two men Dag had in mind to go with Flagg.

“Jimmy,” Dag called, “can you spare those two new wranglers helping you?”

“Them two ain’t horse wranglers by any stretch of the imagination. You can have ’em both, Dag. One of ’em’s classy as a pig on ice and t’other is a pure fumble-fingered fool. Neither one of ’em understands two words of English.” Jimmy turned to face the two boys, who were down on their knees trying to set hobbles on the same horse. “Pancho, you and Cholo go on over yonder with Mr. Dagstaff. Vete pronto allá.”

The two boys muttered something in Spanish, but Dag couldn’t hear it. They walked over as if they had all the time in the world. Their pants and shirts were covered with sweat, and the sweat had caked the dirt that clung to their clothing.

“Dag, are these two wetbacks cowboys?” Flagg asked.

“Sure, Jubal. They’re young, but they’re good with cows. They’re just not too good with horses yet.”

“Can they ride without being tied on with rope?”

Dag laughed. “Yeah, they can ride. Jimmy’s just right particular, that’s all.”

“Boys, come here,” Flagg said. “You speak English?”

Both young men nodded.

“What’s your name, feller?” Flagg asked the taller of the two.

“Paco Noriega.”

“And, you, what’s your name?”

“Ricardo Mendoza.”

“How come Jimmy called you Pancho and Cholo.”

“He don’t like us much,” Paco said. “He knows our names. He makes fun of us.”

“You know cows?” Flagg asked.

“Yes, the cows, we know them,” Paco said.

“Fine, you boys will ride with me tonight. We’re going to steal some cows. I’m going to teach you boys how to rustle cattle.”

“Oh, no, we do not steal,” Ricardo said. “We are honest men.”

“They’ll do,” Flagg said to Dag. To the two Mexicans, he said, “Don’t worry. We’re going to rustle cattle the legal way.”

“Okay, Ricardo, Paco, you saddle two horses to ride,” Dag said. “Bring some rope. We’ll light out right after the sun goes down.”

“Yes, sir,” both boys chorused. They ran off to catch their horses.

“You could have picked me a better pair than those two, Dag.”

“You wanted two of the dumbest. They’ve had schooling and they do speak English. But they can’t count and sometimes you have to tell them twice to do something that’s a mite complicated.”

“That’s real good, Dag. I’d rather work with boys who want to learn than with men who think they know it all.”

“I still don’t know what you have in mind, Jubal, but I like the legal part. Just keep in mind that I can’t afford to buy the cattle I need for this drive.”

“That’s exactly what I’m keeping in mind, Dag. Don’t you worry about a thing, hear?”

Flagg left to look over the herd. Dag walked over to Jimmy, who had just finished hobbling the last horse.

“You’re going to have to take those hobbles off right after sunset, Jimmy.”

“Huh?”

“Flagg wants us to move the herd ten miles north tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

“Well, we’ve got us a full moon, or near-bouts. We can do it, I reckon. Matlee will wonder where in hell we went.”

“By the time he gets here tomorrow, he’ll know.”

“Who’s taking the lead?” Jimmy asked.

“I am. Flagg’s going off to round up more cattle.”

Jimmy snorted.

“You don’t like Jubal much, do you, Jimmy?”

“I don’t know many who do.”

“Why?”

Jimmy looked down at his feet, kicked a clod of dirt. “I don’t know a man like Jubal Flagg,” Gough said. “He’s hard. Not just outside, but inside. He don’t give no leeway. You know he hanged one man.”

“I heard that,” Dagstaff said. “A rustler, wasn’t it?”

“Horse thief, yeah. When he was working at the Z Bar.”

“So?”

“He horsewhipped a man for mistreating a cow when he worked at the Circle S. Near killed him.”

“I don’t hold with mistreating animals either, Jimmy.”

“They say he shot a man over to Corpus one time. Over a woman.”

“Rumors, Jimmy.”

“Well, he sets hisself up as judge, jury, and executioner a mite too much to suit me, Dag.”

“I asked him about that, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. What did he say?”

“He said he did what he did because, at the time, he was the only law around. He said we can’t have any kind of society without laws. And if there’s no law around and you see a man commit a crime, you’re both the law and society.”

“That sounds like prime bullshit to me, Dag.”

“Maybe so. But he’s the best there is at driving cattle, handling men.”

“He handles men because they’re scared of him.”

“Are you scared of him, Jimmy?”

“Hah. He don’t scare me none.”

“Good. Because Flagg’s the boss of this outfit and I don’t want any trouble about his authority.”

“If Flagg speaks for you, I foller him. But if he tells me to do something that’s wrong for the horses, I’ll buck him.”

“You’re the head wrangler, Jimmy. That won’t change.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

After supper, Dag got the herd moving. The longhorns bellowed and groaned as they set out in the darkness, with the moon just clearing the horizon. He had a good lead cow, and once the entire herd was moving, they formed a river under the rising moon, a steady flow over the pewtered land, with the outriders flanking them like ghost men on dark horses.

Flagg, along with the men he had picked for the night’s work, rode off to the west and disappeared in the darkness. The chuck wagon rumbled along well behind the herd, its pots and pans clanging softly like a chorus of distant cowbells. The wagon was invented by Charlie Goodnight, the most famous trail-breaker of them all. And the horses pulling the wagon were stepping out like circus performers on parade, their hides limned by the moonlight so that they seemed bathed in a soft silver fire.