The Palo Duro Trail

Chapter 4

Some of the longhorns that spring were as wild as the beasts of far-off Africa. Chad Myers and Carl Costello, two of Dag’s hands riding for his D Slash spread, were driving eight of them out of a brushy draw under a hot sun that boiled all of the salt out of them and burned their already leathered faces to the crispness of fried bacon. Chad’s little cow pony, Ruff, was working back and forth like a dog with a bone, while Carl’s horse, Lulu, crowded the rear, sawing back and forth to keep the cattle in line.

The cattle streamed onto level land, moving their heads back and forth to look over their surroundings. Their legs were caked with mud, which had accumulated on the ground from the recent rains. Chad edged toward the leader to let the cow know that if it bolted, he would run it down. He slipped the lariat from its thongs and shook out a loop, just in case. Carl put his horse into a sideways sidle and bunched the cows up from the rear. The cattle halted in a bunch and Chad let them think it over.

“This ought to be the last of it,” he told Carl.

“Yup. We’re always the last in.”

“These ain’t seen a horse all winter, let alone a rider.”

“Maybe a lot longer than that. Check them brands.”

Carl noted that four of the cows had the D Slash brand, which was Dag’s. Two were Box M cattle, belonging to Matlee. One was a Rocking D, Deutsch’s brand. The seventh had no brand at all.

“Cut out the Rocking D and let’s head ’em in for the tally,” Chad said.

Carl moved the cattle and guided his horse to cut out the Deutsch cow. An hour later, they arrived at the main herd, which stretched from horizon to horizon. They waved to Dag and Jimmy, Ed Langley and Doofus Wallace, who were tending the smaller bunch of cattle separated from the main herd. Dag was tallying the cattle, with Jimmy looking on as a backup checker. Wallace and Langley were letting the counted cows join the main herd, holding back the rest.

“Just run ’em in behind,” Dag called to Chad.

The two men let their cows join the smaller herd, then rode flank on the rest until the tallying was done. The ground was still wet from the heavy rains, so there was little dust that day. Some of the mud was starting to cake up under the baking heat of the sun. They rode up to Dag and Jimmy.

“That’s the last of them, boss. All we could find.” Chad took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his bandanna.

“It don’t look good,” Dag said. “About half Matlee’s and half ours.”

“What’s the tally?” Carl asked.

“A shade under twelve hundred head.”

“Shit.” Chad put his hat back on, squared it, and crumpled the crown with a pinch of deft fingers.

“Let’s go over to the chuck wagon and talk about this,” Dag said.

The whole herd moved slowly, and as Dag rode the length of it, he talked to the other herders and told them to leave the cows to graze and join them at the chuck wagon next to Rattlesnake Creek. The herd began to swell and expand as the riders left, the cattle grazing on new shoots of green grass. It was like watching a river widen and extend its banks, Dag thought. And the herd was pointed north.

“One of them cows warn’t branded,” Chad told Dag as he rode alongside. “We cut out a Rocking D.”

“Good. Too bad we can’t use a running iron on those.”

Chad laughed. “I could make one real quick.”

“We’ll do this by the book, Chad,” Dag said.

“I’ll bet we ran into a thousand head of Deuce stock on this last go-round.”

“I counted a few hundred myself. Deuce will come out all right at thirty-five dollars a head in Sedalia.”

“He might get forty.”

“We’ll get fifty.”

The men from two ranches, the Box M and the D Slash, gathered at the chuck wagon. They all dismounted and ground-tied their horses. They knew they were not through riding for the day. There was an air of anticipation among them as they whispered their concerns to one another and looked at Dag for a sign of what he might be going to say.

“Gather round,” Dag said to the men.

The hands and Matlee formed a semicircle around Dag. In the chuck wagon, Bill Finnerty, the cook they called “Fingers” and his daughter, Jo, sat on the buckboard seat overlooking the cluster of men.

“Well,” Dag said, “that’s the gather yonder. Headed north. We’ll start the drive in two days.”

“How many head you got, Dag?” Matlee called out.

“I’ll get to that, Barry. Just hold your horses.”

Laughter rippled through the assemblage like a nervous current.

“We’ll have shifts watch the herd, giving you all a chance to go home, say goodbye, and pack for the trip. Bring rifles, pistols, ammunition, canteens, bedrolls, extra tack, your favorite grub. Extra horses. I want the remuda to have some sixty to sixty-five head. Fingers won’t spoil you on this trip. And neither will Josephine.”

More laughter, less nervous this time.

Then one of Matlee’s men, Fred Reilly, spoke up. “You’re not takin’ no woman on this drive, are you, Dagstaff?”

“Where Fingers goes, his daughter goes. Yes, Jo is coming with us, and you should all be mighty grateful. And maybe you’ll learn some manners along the way, Reilly.”

There was a trickle of laughter, but it was plain to see that a lot of the men objected to having a woman along on a trail drive, especially one that would last as long as this one. There were some muttering and grumbling, but it died down quickly.

“Make your own choices for the rotation. Half here, half going home. Then the same tomorrow. I know, I know, some of you won’t have as much time to kiss the missus as the others, but you can quarrel about that when you divide up.”

A chuckle or two broke out, but the seriousness of the moment was not lost on anyone there.

“Expect to be gone most of a year,” Dag said, and waited for the effect of his words on all the men.

“I don’t think we have near enough cattle to make the drive,” Matlee said, a moment later. “Not enough to pay for a drive even to Abilene or Sedalia.”

“Barry,” Dag said, “you really got that head count stuck in your craw, don’t you?”

Dag said it amiably and the crowd laughed, but then it turned serious. Some more grumbling began to break out. Dag held up his hands to quiet the men down.

“It’s a damned good question, Dag,” Jimmy said. “A lot of us have been wonderin’ what you mean to do with this scrawny little herd.”

The men grunted in agreement with Gough.

“This from a man who doesn’t know one end of a cow from the other,” Dag said. “He’s a mighty fine horse wrangler, but I caught him trying to milk a steer the other day.”

More laughter erupted, and Dag felt some of the tension subside this time.

“All right, you deserve an answer, Barry, and here’s what I’ve worked out. Before you all go protesting, hear me out.”

“We’re waiting, Dag,” Matlee said. “You’ve got the deal.”

“And all the cards,” Dag quipped. Then, in a more serious tone, he began speaking. He spoke very slowly and loud enough for every man to hear.

“When I made the trip to Cheyenne last year, I saw a lot of stray cattle. I saw a lot of unbranded cattle. Now what we’re going to do is forage all the way through Texas. Box M men can brand the cattle they bring in, and my men will burn the D Slash into those they bring to the herd. I’ll pay seventy-five cents extra for each head brought in. Now there are millions of cattle in Texas and not all of them wear brands. I expect this herd to swell to the number we need by the time we hit the Red River.”

“Impossible,” someone said.

“It’s going to be work—I grant you that,” Dag said. “But by God, we can do it and we’re going to do it.”

“You really think we can find nearly three thousand head of cattle on the drive?” Matlee asked.

“I do. And I’m going to show all of you how to do it, starting on the first day of the drive, two days from now.”

There were expressions of disbelief among a number of the men. Dag stood his ground and let the dissension die down.

“Now one other thing,” Dag said, “there’s going to be only one trail boss on this drive. He will have the final say on anything that comes up. He’s the best there is, and I want you to know that even I will follow his orders. I’ve given this a lot of thought and I’ve talked to the man and he’s agreed to come with us and lead us to Cheyenne.”

“You’re not going to be trail boss?” Jimmy Gough asked.

“No, I’ll be out with all of you, rounding up more head to fill our contract.”

“Well, who the hell is this trail boss?” Reilly asked. “We might not like the son of a bitch.”

More laughter.

Again, Dag waited until there was absolute silence.

Then he dropped the bomb, knowing there would be an explosion. “Jubal Flagg,” he said.

The air turned blue with curses, and for a few moments, Dag thought he might have a riot on his hands. But all he did was stand there and smile with a confidence he knew he didn’t have. Jubal Flagg was probably the most hated man in that part of the country. But he was also the best.