Matlee snorted and rode off.
Flagg watched him go and shook his head. He spit a stream of tobacco juice in Matlee’s direction, although he was a good two hundred yards away.
“Trouble,” Flagg said to his horse. “It comes whether you expect it or not.”
Then he turned back to the way ahead, looking for a line of trees that would mark a creek where they could stop for supper, at least.
He thought that he might just run the herd all night to give those Box M boys a good sweat.
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.