“Good man, Little Jake,” Flagg said. “Now put that pistol away before you shoot one of the horses in the ass.”
“Yes, sir,” Bogel said, only too glad to finally be told what to do.
“And when you get paid, get yourself a good Colt and throw that one away,” Flagg said, “or use it for a sashweight when you build yourself a house.”
“It’s been a right good pistol, Mr. Flagg.”
“And so was the sword in its time, son.”
Jimmy chuckled. Little Jake looked puzzled as he holstered the black powder weapon, an 1851 Navy Colt.
“Golly, Jimmy,” Little Jake Bogel said, “Mr. Flagg talked to me.”
“Just hope he don’t talk to you when he’s got a burr under his blanket.”
Then Jimmy saw men carrying the dead to a little hill alongside the trail. Tears stung his eyes and he had to take deep breaths to keep from getting sick to his stomach.
Little Jake leaned out from the saddle and emptied his breakfast onto the lone prairie as buzzards appeared out of nowhere and made lazy circles in the sky.
Chapter 23
Firefly became Dag’s chosen horse and it felt good to be back in the saddle again. They had come through rain and nights with the cold north winds blowing off the distant mountains, and he rode with the memory of them all back at that small hill with six rocky mounds paying their respects to the men who had died the day the Comanches attacked and robbed them of a dozen head of cattle, brands of which would never be known. He wept when Matlee read off the names of the dead, his own hands, and Barry’s: Ed Langley, Doofus Wallace, Paco Noriega, and Matlee’s hands, Tommy Colgan, Billy Lee Grant, Doug Hazlett.
They still had plenty of hands, too many, really, with the two Double C men, but all of them felt the loss of those six men keenly and deeply, as if part of their lives had been torn away from them, leaving them hollow inside, with the faces of the dead fading from memory at the end of each passing day.
And Dag remembered Fingers taking him from the wagon when he was so sick, to relieve himself and crying out for Laura in his delirium for a time, until he only called out for Jo, and Laura’s face was fading too. When he tried to think of her, her face would change and he would see only Jo’s and he cursed his memory and himself for being so faithless. But Jo had been his ministering angel, and when he saw her bending over him, in the soft twilight, spooning hot broth into his mouth, he wanted to draw her to him and hold her tight and run his fingers through her hair and kiss that little rosebud of a mouth and make it flower.
The wound had changed him, Dag reasoned. He would return to his true nature one day. Maybe when the drive was over, or when he was back home with Laura and their little baby. The place where the bullet had furrowed through his flesh had long since healed and he had full use of his arm. Once in a while, if he moved it in a certain way, he would feel a slight twinge, but he didn’t know if it was real or only his skin’s memory, like a man with an amputated foot would feel his toes wriggle when there were no toes there anymore.
They had passed the little town of Conchas, where they stocked up on supplies, and were now at the swollen Mora River, where they had been waiting two days to find a ford to cross. Dag was searching for a ford now, without finding any place shallow enough to risk putting cattle into without putting them and the drovers in danger. He rode back to where the herd was bunched, to see if anyone else had found a suitable ford.
“The water isn’t going down none,” Flagg said, “and it looks like we’re going to get more rain. Look at that sky to the west.”
Dag saw the black thunderheads gathering over the mountains, heading their way slowly. He shook his head.
“We’ve been here two days, Jubal,” he said.
“And we could be here a week. Dag, I’m going to send some of the men back. We can’t afford to keep ’em on the payroll. Fingers is strapped for supplies until we get to the next town.”
“We stocked up in Conchas.”
“Some of the food was plumb spoiled,” Flagg said.
“Shit.”
“Who do you want to send back?”
Dag thought for a moment. He looked at the men, many of whom had started to grumble, and the night before, some of his hands got into a fracas with some Box M drovers. Fists flew and blood was spilled. Hard feelings remained.
“How many?” Dag asked.
“We only need a dozen men at most to finish the drive. Maybe fifteen.”
“I think we’ll need fifteen, at least.”
“Make your choice, Dag.”
Dag drew a deep breath. “We can send Chad Myers back. He’s got a family that’s probably hurtin’ by now. And Carl Costello. Ricardo Mendoza, maybe. That’s about all I could spare.”
“All right. Matlee will send a couple or three back. I think you’re keeping the best hands, Dag.”
“Thanks.”
But it was a tough decision. Over the miles, he had drawn very close to not only his men, but to Matlee’s. And the two hands from the Double C were working out fine. They had a good crew.
Vince Sutphen, one of the two Double C hands, rode up from the east.
“I think I found a place to ford,” he told Flagg.
“Show me,” Flagg said.
Dag followed them downriver, past an oxbow, to a place where the river widened. He could see riffles showing that it was more shallow there than up above.
“Did you try it?” Flagg asked.
Sutphen shook his head.
“Well, head on into it, Vince. Take your time.”
Dag and Jubal watched as Sutphen put his horse in at a point where the bank was low. His horse stepped out gingerly, eyes rolling in their sockets showing more white than brown. The water came up to the horse’s knees just off the bank, but on firmer footing, the water was only ankle deep. Sutphen turned his horse halfway across and rode toward the hollow of the bend, stepping off gravel in the shallows. The water was belly deep for a few yards; then he was again in shallow water, clear to the opposite bank.
“Good enough,” Flagg said.
“Water’s awful swift,” Sutphen said. “My horse liked to have went down there a couple of times. I had to hold him against the current. Was a cow to founder, she’d be carried off.”
Flagg looked downstream. The river narrowed and the water roared just beyond the ford, rushing between its banks.
“All right, Vince. Come on back and see how it goes,” Flagg said. He turned to Dag. “We’re still droppin’ calves,” he said. “Wolves carried off two last night, but we still got a passel of ’em.”
“I know,” Dag said. “They’d never get across here on their own.”
“We’ll have to carry ’em acrost,” Flagg said.
“Then we will.”
Sutphen had to fight the current coming back over a slightly different course. They could see the horse wobble and falter, slip and almost fall. In the deep part, the horse had to swim and it lost ground, but recovered, just barely, before it was swept away downstream.
“ ’At’s a son of a bitch in parts,” Sutphen said, when he put his horse back up on the bank. “We’ll have to be mighty careful.”
“Maybe we should wait another day,” Dag said.
Flagg shook his head, looking off to the northwest.
“Nope, we got to get ’em acrost today, Dag. And mighty quick. That storm’s a comin’ and it’ll be a frog strangler. Rain’ll come down like a cow pissin’ on a flat rock.”
They rode back and Flagg took over, ordering the drovers to turn the herd downriver. At the ford, he told Chavez to pick out two men to send downstream.
“Two good ropers, Manny. We’re going to have some cows get away from us and I want them to drag ’em out.”