There, before them, stood a large lake, perhaps ten or fifteen acres in size, and beyond, and surrounding it, a fine carpeting of grass that looked to be bluestem mixed in with other types that he couldn’t identify.
“You’ve got quite a spread here, Gus,” Dag said. “Where’d you get that seed?”
“Some imported from Kentucky, some from England, some from Africa. I’m thinkin’ about mix-breeding my cattle too, maybe gettin’ some British breeds in here, Herefords and such. I heard you could cross-breed ’em with longhorns and get cattle with a larger frame, more beef on the hoof.”
“I wish you good luck,” Dag said.
“You might want to think about it yourself, down the road.”
“I will.”
“Let’s ride on up to the cattle I’d like you to drive for me and I’ll introduce you to the drovers I’ll send along with you.”
They rode around the lake, through more fields where cattle ranged. Gus had done a lot of land clearing, yet it seemed all groomed. He had left brush and trees for game cover, and each pasture had at least one tank, large watering holes. The cattle Dagstaff and Flagg saw all looked healthy and fat.
The ranch house was surrounded by out buildings. There were a stable, a barn, several corrals, horses grazing in a nearby pasture, a bunkhouse, and a smokehouse. The house itself was a frame dwelling that had been added to over the years with what looked to Dag like whipsawed lumber. There were even froed shingles on the roof, which surprised him. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to build such a place.
The men tied up their horses to a hitchrail in front of the house.
“Come on in,” Gus said.
Dag looked at Flagg. They were both filthy, their clothes soaked with grease and caked with dust, their boots smelling of cowshit and horse dung.
“Ah,” Dag said, “maybe Jubal and I should just sit out on your porch. We ain’t had a proper bath in some time and we got our trail duds on.”
“Suit yourself,” Gus said. “I’ll have the missus bring us some hot coffee, or we got tea. No ice though, but she keeps it in an olla in the shade, so it stays right cool.”
“Maybe tea,” Flagg said, the wrinkle of a smile on his lips. “We ain’t had no tea in many a moon.”
“Yeah, tea,” Dag said, his mouth starting to water. It would be a change from Fingers’ coffee, which was thick enough to float nails in.
There was a swing on the porch and several chairs. Dave sat down and took off his hat. He waved Dag and Jubal to chairs.
“Feels good to get out of the heat,” Dave said. “You boys come a long ways?”
Flagg sat down, then got up again, walked to the porch railing, and spat out a chewed wad of tobacco. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and rubbed his brown teeth.
“Yeah, it’s been a ride,” Dag said.
“Any trouble?”
“Comanches one night.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“Naw, they run off. They had only bows and arrows, lances. Testing us, I think.”
“Well, them savages is mighty patient sometimes. We run ’em off here all the time. Kiowas too. Sometimes Apaches. From here to the Red you better keep your eyes peeled.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Dag said, as Flagg sat down.
Gus came back out onto the porch and sat down in a chair.
“The missus will be right out with the tea. She gets it from a mercantile up in Amarillo.”
“We must be getting close to that town,” Dag said.
“Another two to three weeks driving, maybe,” Gus said. “Our boys make it in three or four days.”
A woman came out of the house carrying a tray with a sugar bowl and spoon and four jelly glasses gleaming amber in the sun. She handed a glass to each of the men.
“I’m Janet,” she said. “But, everybody calls me Jan. There’s sugar here if you’ve got a sweet tooth.” She was a petite, dark-haired woman with a warm smile.
“Thanks, Jan,” Gus said. “Just set the tray on that little table there.”
Janet left the tray and went back into the house.
“Tastes good,” Dag said, after taking a sip of tea.
Flagg was spooning sugar into his. “Say, how’d you know we were headed this way?” Flagg asked. “Been curious about that. Did your hands spot our chuck wagon?”
“As a matter of fact, no,” Gus said. “Feller come through here, oh a week ago, I reckon, and said they was a big herd comin’ up our way.”
Flagg sat up straight. “Did the feller have a name?” he asked.
“Said his name was Horton. Don Horton, wasn’t it, Dave?”
“Yep, that’s the name.”
Dag shot a look at Jubal, his eyes glittering with alarm. He had almost forgotten about Horton in the past few weeks. He wondered what the man was up to, and why he had told Gus about the herd. Suddenly, all his feelings about the man boiled up in his mind and he knew that, sooner or later, Horton would show up again. A lot closer, maybe, the next time.
Chapter 19
There was a long moment of silence on the porch, as if time had suddenly stopped dead still.
“You know the man?” Gus asked.
Flagg recovered more quickly than Dag. “He’s one of our drovers,” Flagg said, “off scouting.”
“Well, he gave me the idea to ask you to drive my cattle up north with you. The money will allow me to buy some English stock for cross-breeding.”
“I’d better get back to the herd,” Flagg said, finishing off his tea and standing up. “Please tell the missus how much I liked her tea on a hot afternoon.”
A slight breeze stirred the two hanging plants that were suspended from the ceiling on small chains. They exuded the faint aroma of lilacs.
Flagg shook hands with Gus and Dave. “You can stay here if you like, Dag.”
“I’ll go with you, Jubal. I think we’re finished here.” He turned to Gus. “Have your herd ready when we pass through, Gus. I’ll take care of the rest. Handshake?”
“Sure, Felix.”
The two men shook hands.
“All of your stock branded?” Flagg asked.
“Yep, ever’ head.”
“We’ll trail brand ’em before we turn ’em into the herd.”
“My hands can help with that.”
“No need.”
“When we come out, I’ll bring the two hands I’m sending with the herd. You’ll meet ’em then.”
Felix and Jubal rode off, heading back the way they had come. Neither spoke until they were well away from ranch headquarters. They saw riders, who waved at them. They waved back. Doves coursed the sky, in pairs, darting past in swift undulating wing strokes, whistling softly.
“All right, Jubal,” Dag said, “what do you make of Horton bein’ up here at the Double C?”
“It don’t make a whole lot of sense, I reckon.”
“He ever been up this way before?” Dag asked.
“Why, he grew up around Amarillo. I think his pa had a spread on the salt fork of the Red, matter of fact.”
“So he knows the country.”
“Pretty much.”
Dag mulled over in his mind what he knew, what he suspected. He was pretty sure that Horton had tried to kill him once. And then he had left suddenly. Now his track had shown up here. He was heading north, toward the Red River. Why? Was he waiting somewhere up ahead in ambush? At some place where he had the advantage of concealment and surprise? How did a man protect himself against a drygulcher like that?
As they rode, Dag’s scalp prickled and he began to look around as if expecting to see Horton materialize over the horizon at any moment. He wondered why Horton wanted to kill him. But it didn’t take a big stretch of the imagination to see who would benefit from his death: Deutsch.
Flagg broke into Dag’s reverie. “Did you know, Dag, that most trail bosses don’t let the drovers bring their own horses to the remuda, like we did?”