The pond churned as hooves splashed along the edge. Ripples marred the mirrored surface and frogs leaped into the water with soggy plops. The crickets went silent and the roped cows fought to get free of the loops around their horns, shaking their heads and bucking, kicking their hind legs while in the air.
“Bunch ’em up,” Flagg said, dragging his cow toward one that was cavorting like some galvanized being at the end of Horton’s rope.
The others rode toward Flagg, pulling their catches behind them.
“Pack ’em close,” Flagg said.
Cattle were herd animals and he knew that these would calm down if they could feel their own kind near. When the cows were lined up, he dismounted. His horse backed up, to keep the rope taut, as it had been trained to do. Flagg ran his hands over the rumps of the cows, feeling for brands. He pushed and prodded their rear ends in order to take advantage of the moon and starlight.
“No brands,” he said. “Outlaws.”
“Those others didn’t run far,” Horton said.
“They’re all bunched up yonder starin’ down here at us.”
“I know,” Flagg said. “Tie these up, hobble ’em good, and we’ll go after the others. I think they’re all part of a wild bunch.”
The men worked quickly, securing the cattle so that they could not run away. Then, as Flagg motioned them into a pincer formation, they rode a wide circle around those cows that had escaped. As they drew near from three sides, however, one of the cows bolted and the others quickly followed.
“After ’em,” Flagg shouted and the riders streamed after the fleeing cattle, shaking out fresh ropes. Horton and Chavez had given the young Mexicans an extra rope each.
The cattle started to run almost immediately. The riders fanned out as the cattle did and each man tracked down a cow, their horses galloping over the eerie landscape after shadows.
The cows knew every trick. They dodged, backtracked, circled, stood their ground, and then bolted. But, one by one, each rider lassoed the cows they chased and brought them under submission. They all headed back to the cows they had left tied up, where Flagg again checked for brands. None of the cattle had markings on their ears or bodies and he grunted with satisfaction.
“Let’s lead these back, then hit another tank,” Flagg said. “What we’ll do, though, is track to a point ahead of the main herd. Or nearbouts.”
“Who will watch them?” Paco asked, as he rode alongside Flagg, leading two cows, as did the others.
“We’ll tie ’em up tonight, brand them in the morning when the herd catches up. By then, they will stay with the herd.”
“Just hogtie them?” Ricardo wanted to know.
“We’ll hobble them. I’ll leave one of you to watch over ’em. But we’ll wait here for a while, then move slowly. Those cattle that scattered should pick our trail and follow us. We won’t even have to rope ’em.”
“I hope you have more ropes,” Ricardo said.
“Oh, we have plenty of rope, more than you really want, chamaco. By morning, you’ll never want to see another rope, much less hold one in your hand.”
“No soy chamaco. Soy un hombre,” Ricardo said defensively. “I’m not a boy. I’m a man.”
“I know,” Flagg said in Spanish. “But you could be one of my sons.”
“Do you have sons?”
“Nope. Kids get on my nerves.”
After that, Ricardo rode with his friend, Paco, keeping his distance from Flagg.
As Flagg had said, some of the scattered cows began to follow them on their slow course back in the direction of the trail drive. Flagg knew they would stay with the others once he bedded them down for the night.
He decided to leave Horton to watch over those first cows, while he and the others rode back to the chuck wagon to pick up more lariats. The chuck wagon, besides carrying cooking utensils and food, served as a supply wagon, with boxes of horseshoes, nails, extra wood to repair broken wheels, hubs, rope, and medicines. The wagon was, Flagg knew, a necessary component to any long trail drive.
“Let’s count head,” Flagg said, as he finished hobbling the lead cow. They had brought the cattle next to a small creek, and tied two head to different trees. There were grass and water for the small bunch, and they could be reached later on, in the morning, when it came time to brand the outlaws and shunt them into the main herd.
“See you in the mornin’, Jubal,” Horton said, as Flagg and the others rode off to the south for more rope.
“You get some rest, Don. It’s going to be like this for a while.”
“I know,” Horton said, and started building himself a cigarette with the makings in his pocket. He built a small fire to keep warm. It was already turning chilly and midnight was a long way off.
In the far dark, where the moon’s light did not stretch, deep in the hardwood canyon called the Palo Duro, coyotes yapped then broke into melodious ribbons of chromatic song—cries that ranged up and down the scale in some ancient cryptic language. Horton listened to them and felt a chill course down his spine. The coyotes seemed to be intoning a kind of death song and death was on his mind that night.
He wriggled his toes in his right boot. He felt the padded oilskin folder with five hundred-dollar bills inside. Deutsch had written out an agreement and had signed it. That was in the packet too. Deuce had given him that money before he left the Rocking D to go with Flagg. It was just a down payment. There were three more packets containing five hundred dollars each waiting for him when he finished the job.
As he smoked, Horton mulled over a way to accomplish his tasks so that they would look like accidents and he would not be suspected.
Deuce wanted him to kill Felix Dagstaff and Jubal Flagg before they reached the Red River. His reward would be two thousand dollars and the deed to Flagg’s ranch, which Deuce assured him would be free and clear if Flagg died on the cattle drive north.
The notes of the coyote songs faded away and the moon seemed to glow even brighter as Horton blew a plume of smoke into the air. The smoke floated like a gossamer ghost above his head before the breeze tore it into wisps and the last shred vanished.
Deuce had asked Horton for his loyalty, and he had gladly sworn it to his boss. For the rewards Deuce had promised, a man could be very loyal. Now all he had to do was figure a way to kill two men without arousing any suspicion that he had done it. And he knew, along the Palo Duro, with a large herd of cattle, there would be plenty of opportunities to carry out his deadly mission.
Chapter 9
Dag saw the orange glimmer of a fire along the ragged line of dogwoods. He held up his hand to halt the drive, spoke to the man riding a few yards behind him.
“This is where we stop,” Dag said.
The cattle fanned out over the grasslands as dawn was breaking. Off to the left, the hands could see the fire by the creek. They all figured that it meant the end of a long night and the lead rider, Caleb Newcomb, a D Slash hand, flanked the lead cow and started turning the herd to bunch it up and let it water at the creek. Dag looked back at the outriders and signaled for his men to let the herd graze. They had covered nine or ten miles during the night. The men and the stock were tired and hungry.