“Jubal,” Dag said, “what do we do about these odd brands when we get to Cheyenne? How do we explain those that aren’t Box M or D Slash?”
Flagg rolled a cigarette while Fingers and Jo scrubbed plates with dirt and washed them, put out the fire, and packed up the sawhorses and boards. He lit his cigarette with a lucifer and blew the smoke into the air where the breeze shredded all but the acid aroma.
“If this was a regular roundup, we’d have representatives from all the ranches around us.”
“Right,” Dag said.
“And if we had time, I could ride to every ranch and offer to buy the head that follered us or just tell the owner to come and pick up his cows.”
“That’s right, Jubal.”
“But we ain’t got time to ride a hunnert miles a day lookin’ for owners of strays.”
“No, we don’t.”
“So we got some other choices, Dag. We can fill out false bills of sale and hope to hell we don’t get caught, or we can use a runnin’ iron on them strays and pray to Jesus we don’t get caught with the irons or that the buyer finds out what we done.”
“Shit, Jubal. We could all get hanged.”
“Or just you, Dag.”
Jubal pulled on his cigarette and let the smoke dribble out of the side of his mouth.
Dag put a hand to his throat, massaged the flesh as if it were some precious material, which it was.
“I don’t much like the idea of that,” Dag said.
“There’s another thing comes to mind. A couple, really.”
“Yeah?”
“First off, when we butcher a beef on the trail, you can bet, by God, that it’ll be a cow wearin’ a brand what ain’t none of ours.”
“And the other?”
“We keep a tally at the stockyard in Cheyenne and pay the ranchers when we get back. Adding, maybe, a little profit, but just a little.”
“Some might say we took advantage.”
“I reckon some might,” Flagg said.
Dag looked out at all the cattle. They were moving now, slowly streaming north, in no particular hurry. He was still far short of the number of head he had to have to fill the contract in Cheyenne. Fingers was finished packing the chuck wagon. Jo had gone off to relieve herself and he saw her walking back, patting her hair, straightening her dress. She waved to him and he nodded, still preoccupied with all that he and Flagg had discussed.
“Well, Jubal, what do you reckon I ought to do? We’ll have to tell Matlee about the odd brands.”
“Yeah, you would. Or just let him find out.”
“No, I’m going to tell him straight out.”
“That would be my advice.”
“So what do we do if Matlee wants those odd brands cut out?”
“Reason with him,” Jubal said. “And if he says cut ’em out, we cut ’em out.”
“And what happens if we keep all those brands in our herd and we have to explain them to the buyer in Cheyenne?”
“If he’s a cattleman, he might look the other way, give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Dag, there’s some decisions you have to make on your own. Don’t go lookin’ for trouble. But if it comes, just meet it head on.”
“What would you do, Jubal, if this was your herd?”
“In a way, it is my herd, Dag. I’m responsible for it. What I say goes, on the drive. So I say we keep what we got and cull what we can for vittles along the way, and then let the damned chips fall where they fall.”
Jimmy Gough and Little Jake were setting out with the remuda. Dust rose in the air and wafted away like red and brown smoke.
“All right, Jubal. I guess we’ll go with what we have. We didn’t steal those cattle.”
“No, you can’t help it if some other man’s cattle want to foller you clear across the Red and on up to Cheyenne.”
Flagg walked away and climbed aboard his horse. Dag watched him go, then saw Jo climb up onto the wagon seat next to Fingers. She turned and smiled at him. She waved and he waved back.
“See you tonight,” she called, as the wagon lurched into motion.
Dag didn’t reply. He caught up his horse and stepped into the saddle, but he didn’t move. He looked back down the trail from where they had come and scanned the sky. There wasn’t a speck of dust, just an emptiness that was like the hollow in the pit of his stomach.
No sign of Matlee and his hands.
Dag tilted his head and marked the passage of the sun in its arc. It was well past noon, well past the time when Matlee should have rejoined the drive.
He turned back and clucked to Nero. He tapped the horse in the flanks with his spurs and they were moving. He passed the chuck wagon and waved without looking at either Jo or Fingers. Then he started circling the tail end of the herd, heading for the right flank.
He felt the weight of all that was on his mind and wondered if he was making the right decision. He couldn’t go back now. Deutsch would foreclose on him if he didn’t come up with the money to pay off the mortgage and he’d wind up with nothing. Nothing at all.
And now another worry.
Where in hell was Barry Matlee?
Chapter 11
The drive continued along Palo Duro Canyon. Horton and the others brought in small bunches of cattle, but the herd never stopped. Fingers kept a fire going in a large iron bowl, and when it came time for branding, Jo gathered firewood, and Cavins brought out the irons. It was hot and dusty, and the hands rode through rugged country with little water. Finally, by midafternoon, Dag turned in the saddle and saw a cloud of dust to the south. He switched with Chavez and rode drag, falling farther behind as the dust cloud drew closer.
“Jimmy,” Dag called, when he could make out the pinpoint silhouettes of riders and horses far to the right, “ride up and tell Jubal to turn the herd in. I think I see Matlee comin’.”
Gough stopped the remuda and told Little Jake to hold them up while he rode to the front of the herd.
“Close ’em in, Manny,” Dag yelled. “Bunch ’em up. We’re going to call a halt for a while.”
Chavez started compacting the herd, but he did it slowly and carefully so that the cows wouldn’t be alarmed. Gradually, the rear of the herd began to slow even more and the cattle grazed contentedly under the watchful eyes of the outriders.
Several minutes later, Barry Matlee rode up, followed by his hands and their remuda. The cloud of dust thinned and evaporated. The horses were starting to lather, Dag noticed.
“Where in hell have you been, Barry?” Dag pulled his hat off and wiped his sweaty forehead. “You had me plumb worried.”
By that time, Flagg was riding up at a gallop, wondering why Dag had sent Jimmy up to call a halt to the drive.
Matlee waited until Flagg joined them before he answered Dag’s question. “Hellfire, Dag, that damned Deuce played hob with us right off this mornin’. Wouldn’t let us ride acrost his land. I mean he put guns out to stop us doin’ what we’ve always done.”
Matlee unleashed his canteen and drank several swallows. His shirt was plastered to his chest with sweat and his face tracked with grime. He looked tired, and so did his men, who were dismounting and leading horses over to Jimmy and the remuda.
“I thought Deuce was going to head out himself,” Dag said. “He’s taking his sweet time.”
“Oh, he’s made the gather, all right,” Matlee said, as he corked his canteen. Water sloshed in it as Matlee slung it over his saddle horn. “But he and his men blocked us every time we tried to cut a corner or cross a creek that ran across his spread. I mean, those boys were downright belligerent.”
“You were threatened?” Flagg asked.
“Yep, his segundo told us he’d shoot the first man who trespassed.”
“Any shots fired?” Dag asked.