Miss Murray on the Cattle Trail(21)
He kept to the left of the herd, avoiding the wall of charging steers at his elbow. There was no time to waste, but he knew if his horse went down he’d be trampled in seconds. He rode hard alongside the bellowing herd and hoped to heaven that someone up near the front was working to turn the cattle in a circle and bring them to a stop.
His ears hurt with the noise, but he kept moving alongside the pounding steers and prayed Dancer wouldn’t stumble and dump both of them under all those hooves.
“Turn ’em!” he yelled to the riders ahead.
“Tryin’!” someone yelled back.
His horse was wheezing, but he kept spurring him to keep going. He couldn’t see much except dust and shadows, and he kept pulling Dancer out of the way of the stampeding steers. It sounded like a damn freight train was coming right at him.
* * *
Alex could see nothing through the thickening dust, but the ground beneath the wagon began to shake. Roberto grabbed the curved iron brace over their heads. “Hold on!” he yelled.
She grasped the handle of the locked cabinet where Roberto kept his medicine bottles and Zach’s emergency cash. The noise grew deafening, and when she peeked out the back she screamed. A swirling mass of bawling, maddened cows was headed straight for the wagon.
“Can they stop them?” she yelled.
Roberto cupped his hands to make himself heard. “They will try to turn them.”
“How—”
The wagon started to shudder. “Roberto!” she shrieked.
He lunged for her, pulling her head down against his shoulder, but she couldn’t stand not seeing what was happening and she wrenched free.
The writhing sea of animals raced straight toward them, and Alex stopped breathing. I’m going to die out here.
The herd thundered forward, so close she could see their fear-crazed eyes. Off to one side, three cowhands struggled to steer the animals, cracking their whips and shouting. She could feel the heat of the cows’ bodies, and their rank smell made her gag. In another second the wagon would be overrun, trampled under the hooves of a thousand maddened steers.
Oh, God, they would smash it into the earth, and her right along with it. She waited, unable to look away. The cattle surged closer, and Roberto grabbed her shoulders and tried to pull her down.
At the last possible second the sea of cows split in two and swirled around them on either side. The chuck wagon groaned and shuddered and suddenly began to list to one side.
“We’re tipping over!” she screamed. She shut her eyes and waited to feel those sharp hooves slice into her body.
A whip cracked, and cracked again, and a man kept shouting. Gradually the noise and the heat receded and all at once it was quiet.
“Madre mia!” Roberto breathed.
“Is it over?” she asked shakily.
“Si, is over. We are most lucky.” He reached out and patted her trembling hand. “I find whiskey, okay?”
She looked into his wide brown eyes and tried to smile.
It took the rest of the night to round up the steers and settle them down. Zach satisfied himself that he’d lost no cowhands and that Dusty and Roberto were safe, even though they’d been directly in the path of the runaway herd.
He tripled the night-riders, but he couldn’t help wondering what had started the stampede off in the first place. He’d heard a sharp sound of some kind, but what was it? A snapped branch? A gun shot? Maybe he’d never know.
He found a shaken Dusty nursing a glass of whiskey Roberto was just topping up. She answered his questioning look with a brief nod and a wobbly smile that made his insides hurt.
Chapter Thirteen
First thing the next morning, Zach’s point rider galloped up. “Boss! Boss!”
“What is it, Curly?”
“We’re missing some steers. About a hundred head.”
Zach’s belly tightened. “Maybe they got trampled. You find any dead carcasses?”
“Nope. You think it was Indians?” Curly asked.
“Don’t think so,” Zach said. “An Indian would take only what he could eat, and you’d never hear him. And an Indian would be real careful not to start a stampede.”
“You’re right, I guess.”
“Besides,” Zach continued, “Indians couldn’t get away with a hundred head of cattle before the soldiers from Fort Hall would run across them.”
“So...” Curly ran his hand over his stubbly chin.
“Yeah.” Zach ground his teeth. “Rustlers.”
“Pretty slick, huh? Nobody saw a thing, not even the night-riders, until the herd started runnin’.”
Zach bit the inside of his cheek. José and Cassidy were night-herding last night. He’d trust José with his life, but Cassidy? He spurred his horse to the back of the straggling herd.
Dusty was riding alongside José and Cassidy, her bandanna tied over her mouth and nose. He stepped Dancer up close. “You okay?” he yelled.
“Yes,” she shouted, nodding. “Fine.”
He dropped back and fell in beside the man he hadn’t yet decided about. “Cassidy?”
The big man drew rein. “Yeah?”
“You were night-herding last night, weren’t you?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“See anything?”
“Nope. Why?”
“After the stampede last night, Curly ran a tally. We came up short a hundred head.”
“Maybe Indians ran ’em off. Or you coulda lost ’em during the stampede.”
Zach shook his head. “Maybe. But I figure it was rustlers.” He watched Cassidy’s face, but the cowhand’s wind-burned features revealed nothing. Without proof, Zach wasn’t about to accuse a man.
“José? You see anything last night before the cattle stampeded? Hear anything?”
The Mexican shook his head.
“Keep your eyes open,” Zach said. He shot another look at Cassidy and reined away. Sure hoped his scout up ahead could find water today. Either that or a hundred stray steers. Wally could usually find a water source blindfolded. Steers, he didn’t know about. But right now, finding water was more important.
The chuck wagon had rattled away to the east shortly after their dawn breakfast, followed by Cherry and the remuda. Now, twelve hours later, a dirty, exhausted crew came up on a rise and began cheering. The herd smelled water, kicked up their hooves and pressed forward.
“Run ’em parallel,” Zach shouted. “Parallel!” If the hands just let the whole mass of cattle surge forward, the thirsty steers would trample each other. He wanted them in a long line parallel to the water source, not bunched up on top of each other.
He trotted on up over the rise. Oh, man, just look at that! A sparkling blue lake nestled in a wide green meadow dotted with red and orange Indian paintbrush and carpets of desert primrose. Beyond the lake, the chuck wagon was parked between two stands of cottonwoods, and Cherry had corralled the remuda close by.
If it weren’t for Dusty’s presence on this drive, the hands would be tearing toward the water, ripping off their shirts and jeans as they went. Zach chuckled. Good thing tomorrow was Sunday. They’d hold up for the day and give everyone a chance to get clean and wash out their dirt-stained duds. Give himself a chance to shave.
That night Roberto celebrated by baking three dried-apple pies for dessert. Zach had just dug his fork into his second piece when he looked up to see two riders on the horizon. He set his plate down and stood up.
The strangers headed straight for the camp without slacking their pace. Talk around the fire dwindled and then died.
“Dusty,” Zach said in an undertone. “Make yourself scarce. Get into the chuck wagon.”
“But—”
“Now,” he ordered.
Roberto strode forward, grasped her arm and steered her toward the wagon. Zach watched her climb inside, and then he turned to face the unidentified riders.
“Curly,” he said without turning. “Get a shotgun.” When the two horsemen were thirty yards away, he started toward them.
Both men looked travel-weary and unshaven. Both wore sidearms. They reined up ten feet in front of him, and one leaned down over his saddle horn.
“Howdy. Name’s Gibson. Orren Gibson. You missing any cattle?”
“Yeah, about a hundred head.”
“Us, too. About seventy steers. I was driving them to Abilene.”
“I’m heading for Winnemucca,” Zach volunteered. “Name’s Zach Strickland.”
“How about keeping your eyes peeled for some loose Double Diamond steers?”
“Sure. Most of mine wear the Rocking K brand, but we’ve got some other brands mixed in.”
“We’ll watch out for yours, Mr. Strickland.”
“Much obliged. Care for some apple pie?”
“No, thanks. Got some miles to cover before dark.”
When Zach returned to the campfire, the plate of pie he’d left was scraped clean. “Hey, who ate my pie?”
No one said anything, and then Dusty’s fork clattered onto the empty tin plate. “I ate it,” she announced.
He frowned down at her where she sat beside the campfire. “How come?”
“Because you sent me off to hide in the chuck wagon. It was extremely cramped in there, and I missed dessert. And an exciting news story.”
He stared at her. “I give the orders around here. I expect my hands to follow them.”