The Palo Duro Trail

Chapter 12

There was little water that night. Flagg didn’t find a creek, but he found some depressions that had collected water from the last rain and that was where he ordered the men to bed the cattle down for the night.

He had come to another decision as well.

Flagg gestured to Dagstaff, as the hands who were not tending to the herd gathered to smoke and talk and wait for supper. The two men walked out of earshot of the others. Flagg chewed on a cud of tobacco, his face as dusty as the land itself, his eyes peering out of sweat-soaked mud holes.

“Dag, I’m going to turn Matlee and his bunch out tonight to round up strays he can put his Box M brand on. We’ll keep your boys in camp. Let ’em get some shut-eye.”

“That’s fine with me, Jubal. But there’s something else behind it, ain’t there?”

“Maybe. Let Barry get his feet wet.”

“I hope he finds a passel of outlaws.”

“He won’t.”

“We’re not in competition, Jubal.”

“I’m not so sure, Felix.”

Dag looked over, saw that Matlee was glaring at them from where he was leaning against one of the wagon wheels, rolling a quirly. He couldn’t make out the expression on Barry’s face, but he could imagine what he was thinking.

“I ain’t gonna ride that road with Matlee, Jubal.”

“Good. Maybe we can have a peaceful journey.”

“We by God better.”

The two men left it at that. They split up and walked their separate ways. As Dag approached the chuck wagon, he felt Matlee’s gaze on him. The coffee was boiling. He got a cup off the wagon, walked to the fire, picked up the pot, and poured some in his cup.

Finnerty had driven his cooking irons into the ground and a pot full of stew hung over the fire, its blackened bottom licked by lashing flames.

Dag turned and saw Jo standing there, a smile curving her lips.

“Don’t spill that on me,” she said lightly.

“Jo, I’ll get out of your way.”

“Will we be here for the night?”

“Yes, we all need some rest.”

“Good. I think I found a catfish pond. I’ve got some poles in the wagon.”

“You want to go fishing, Jo?”

“I thought it would be nice. A change.”

He stepped to her side, away from the fire. He tipped the coffee cup to his lips.

“Early?” he asked. “Late?”

“When it turns cool.”

“We don’t have any worms.”

“I’ve got some liver. Pa butchered a cow today and I saved some. It won’t last and it makes good bait.”

“We’ll do ‘er,” Dag said. “Wanta bet?”

“First fish? Biggest?” She laughed.

“First.”

“A nickel.”

“A nickel.”

She smiled at him and he walked behind the wagon, where he could watch the setting sun. He took a deep breath, wondering if he had made the right decision. It was harmless enough, he decided. He and Jo had fished many times before. But not out there, not in that vast emptiness, that long plain that stretched from every horizon in every direction.

Nothing will happen, he told himself. We’ll fish and we’ll swap stories. Like always.

Then, after another sip of coffee, he quietly said something else. “Felix, you’re a damned fool.”

Horton and the other cowhands rode in with a half dozen head of cows to show for a long day’s work. The sun was setting and the men looked tired. Cavins and Jorge Delgado made short work of the branding and the cattle were turned into the herd. Flagg handed out assignments to the nighthawks, with Dagstaff standing by. He saw Matlee looking at him and he nodded.

“Don,” Flagg said, “you and your boys can rest up tonight. I’m sending Matlee and his hands out ahead of us to rustle the brush for outlaws.”

“They won’t find nary a cow for twenty mile,” Horton said.

“Maybe they will and maybe they won’t, Don. But they’ll get their cherries busted.”

Everyone laughed, including Jo. She rang the dinner triangle with a ladle and the men lined up for supper as the sun sank below the western horizon, leaving a soft orange glow in the sky.

After supper, Matlee divided up some of his hands and directed them to go to different locations ahead of where the herd was bedded down. Those of the D Slash outfit who had been out before offered plenty of advice, mostly in the form of wisecracks.

“Don’t wear red. Them outlaws can see in the dark.”

“If you get off your horse, you better be wearin’ horn-proof clothes.”

“Ropin’ cows in the dark is like bein’ in a coal mine. You don’t know what you’re goin’ to catch.”

And then the Box M boys rode out under the slender moon, disappearing into the darkness. The cattle lowed and moaned as the men passed the herd, and the nighthawks waved them on, wishing them good luck.

“Well, there they go, Jubal.” Dag heaved a sigh.

“Did you talk to Barry about bringing back branded cattle?”

“No, I never had the chance. He’ll find out soon enough.”

“That man’s already got a burr under his saddle, I’m thinkin’.”

“We’ll just have to see what he brings in,” Dag said.

“If he brings in anything.” Flagg spit a gob of tobacco and juice, then slapped his leg with the flat of his hand. “I’m goin’ to turn in, Dag. Looks clear tonight. The herd’s settled down some, and unless somethin’ spooks ’em, they should be quiet.”

“You’re not thinkin’ stampede, are you, Jubal?”

“Not tonight, anyways. You get a herd this size and one nervous cow—hell, anything can happen.”

“Now you’re makin’ me nervous.”

“Well, don’t snore too loud tonight, Dag.”

Dag walked over to the chuck wagon. Finnerty and Jo were finished with the dishes. Jo was getting a couple of cane poles out of the wagon, along with some string, a sack of hooks and weights, and a package of bloody liver in a tin can. She was wearing the same calico dress, but had donned a light wool shirt. He had seen her in overalls back home, but she knew a lot of the hands didn’t like women in men’s pants, so he had told her not to wear overalls or trousers on the drive.

“Is your daddy comin’ with us, Jo?” Dag asked.

“No. You know better than that, Felix. Daddy doesn’t like to fish.”

“He doesn’t like to eat them either, does he?”

She laughed and handed him a pole and the can with the liver in it.

“How far is this catfish pond?” he asked, as they started out.

“Not far. Maybe two miles. I rode Sugarfoot out there after we stopped.”

“We’ll walk it, then.”

“Yes, it’s such a nice evening.”

As the two started out, Don Horton emerged out of the darkness. “Where you goin’, Dag?” he asked.

Dag held up his pole. “What do you think this is, Don? A lightning rod?”

Horton laughed.

“Miss Jo, good evenin’,” Horton said. “Is Dag takin’ you snipe huntin’?”

“I’ll bet you know all about snipe hunting, Mr. Horton.”

“Snipe hunting” was a trick older boys played on younger boys. They took a boy out in the woods with a gunny sack and made the boy stand there with the empty sack, saying they would drive the snipes to him. Then the big boys just left him there, wondering how long it would take the younger lad to figure it all out. Jo had been taken snipe hunting herself.

“Well, I know there ain’t no fish in any of them muddy tanks,” Horton said.

“Well, I found a spring-fed pond that does have fish in it. Good evening, Mr. Horton.”

Dag chuckled and they kept walking.

When they were out of earshot, Jo whispered, “I’m glad you’re wearing a six-gun, Felix.”

“Why? I always wear it when I’m working or out after dark.”

“I know. Don Horton gives me a funny feeling, that’s all. I don’t know why he was teasing us.”

“It’s just his way,” Dag said.

“He knew where we were going. He heard me ask you.”

“He did?”

“I’ve been watching that man, Felix. And he’s been watching you.”

“What?”

“Whenever you’re not looking, he’s watching you, like a cat watches a mouse—or like a hawk sitting on a fence post looking at a rabbit.”

Dag laughed, but it wasn’t much of a laugh, more of a snort of disbelief. “Don and I don’t have no bad feelin’s between us, far as I know,” he said.

“Then I wonder why he keeps watching you like a red-tailed hawk.”

Dag shrugged. “Maybe he finds me interestin’,” he joked.

“Just don’t turn your back on him when you’re off by yourself. He might just be behind you.”

Jo said no more about it. Dag made a note to himself that he’d keep a closer eye on Horton, but he had no idea why the man would be watching him. Maybe it was just Jo’s imagination.

“Here’s the pond,” she said.

The water shimmered in the faint moonlight. It had high banks like the pond he had at home. Someone had widened it with shovels and there were tracks around it from deer, cattle, and coyote. Someone had tended it, so there ought to be cattle around close. He wondered why Horton had found so few.

“You can see it bubbling over on one end,” she said. “There’s a spring under here, and I saw fish when I rode up here this afternoon.”

“Did the fish have whiskers?”

She laughed. “Let’s find out.”

They sat on the bank and rigged their poles with line, hooks, and sinkers. Dag cut up the liver into small chunks and they baited their hooks.

Jo threw her line in the water. The sinker made a splash and then sank, dragging the line with it. Dag put his line in a moment later.

“You got a head start on me, Jo,” he chided.

“First fish.”

Dag chuckled. “A bet’s a bet,” he said.

All of a sudden, Jo pulled back on her pole and reared backward. Her line was taught and was making circles as it cut the water.

“I got one!” she exclaimed and bent back even farther, pulling on the line to keep out the slack.

That move probably saved her life, because just then, a rifle shot cracked. Dag heard a bullet sizzle just past his ear, frying the empty air where Jo had been a second before.

Dag’s blood froze as his belly knotted in fear.