The two looked at each other with a sudden flash of understanding.
“Let me see those papers again,” Dag said.
She didn’t hand them to him, but held on to one side of the papers, while Dag turned the pages. On page three were the signatures.
And there, next to those of Elmer McGee, and Adolph Deutsch, was the notary stamp. The signature was H. McGee. And beneath the stamp and the two signatures were those affirmations of the two witnesses, Sam Coker and Helga McGee.
“That little bitch,” Laura said.
“We should have known,” Dag said. “Elmer married Helga, and she’s very close to her father, Adolph. Elmer adores her.”
“And Helga adores her father,” Laura said.
“Yes, the little bitch.”
They both laughed. But the laughter faded quickly.
Laura pored over the papers again. “I feel betrayed,” she said.
“You can’t blame Elmer, Laura. Helga is a beautiful young woman and Elmer is older than I am. He probably doesn’t have that many years left. I know that wound he got in the war has worn him down. He doesn’t eat right; he doesn’t sleep well. Helga is the light of his life.”
“His miserable life,” Laura said bitterly. “Oh, people!”
“People will disappoint you, hon, more often than not.”
“I’m very worried now about the drive to Cheyenne. You’re short of cattle and it’s so far away.”
“Laura, I’m not going to give up. I’m not going to lie down and play dead because of Deutsch’s treachery. I’ll make the drive. I’ll find the cattle we need. And I’ll be back in time to pay off the mortgage.”
“Pay it off?”
“Every cent of it.”
“I love you, Felix,” she said. They embraced and she squeezed him hard against her.
That night, they made love as if it were their last night on earth. They were like two lovers in ancient Pompeii, with the volcano Vesuvius rumbling in the background just before it erupted and buried all in the town alive.
Chapter 7
Jubal Flagg, along with Manuel Chavez and Don Horton, rode up to the herd late the next afternoon, to find Dag and his men holding the herd on a patch of grass only two miles from where the cattle had been on the previous day under Barry Matlee’s supervision.
“I want this herd to start moving as soon as the sun sets,” Flagg said, as he stepped down from his horse Ranger, a tall black Missouri trotter that had been gelded.
“But Matlee and his cowhands won’t be back until tomorrow,” Dag said.
“I don’t give a damn,” Flagg said. “This herd is moving tonight. Barry can catch up with us. We’ll leave a wide enough trail.”
“We’re not out of grass here.”
“No, but you want to build this herd up, Dag, and we’re going to start tonight. I want you to give me two of your dumbest cowhands, right after dark. They’ll come with me, Don and Manny.”
“What do you aim to do, Jubal?”
“I’m going to teach them something, and then they can teach the rest of your hands. We’re, by God, going to build the damnedest herd that ever left the Caprock, and drive the sons of bitches up the Palo Duro.”
Flagg was an imposing figure. He stood a shade over six feet tall, with shoulders that were as wide as an ox yoke. Square-jawed, clean-shaven, he had dark brown eyes that were like twin gun barrels. His face was chiseled to a lean hardness that matched the rest of his body. His tan was deep, weathered like the soil that lined the Palo Duro Canyon, dark as old bronze. He wore a crumpled, weather-beaten felt hat and carried a Colt .44/40 on his hip. A big Sharps Yellow Boy rifle jutted from the scabbard attached to his saddle. And Dag knew he had two other pistols in his saddle bags, a Smith & Wesson .32, a belly gun, and another Colt .44, which matched the one he carried.
He wore a light blue chambray shirt, heavy duck trousers, and a red bandanna around his neck. A string to a sack of makings dripped from his shirt pocket, and he constantly chewed on a twist of strong tobacco, which he could spit, when chewed, with accuracy for a distance of at least ten feet. He took a pocketknife from his pants pocket and cut off a chunk of twist and slid it into the side of his mouth as he looked at the cattle grazing all around them.
Three riders circled the herd at a leisurely pace, while other hands worked on their tack and began to shake out bedrolls.
Flagg spat a plume of tobacco. “They won’t need those bedrolls tonight, Dag,” he said. “And you tell Fingers to feed ’em light tonight and be ready to move ten miles ahead of the herd right after he’s served the vittles. We’ll breakfast at the Foster ranch come morning.”
“You give me a lot of orders, Jubal.”
“That’s what you hired me for, Dag. Did you bring the cash?”
“Yep,” Dag said. “Scratched up all I could. Had to have Laura empty her cookie jar.”
“Give me some now, then.”
“How much?”
“Fifty or sixty ought to do it for now.”
“What for?”
“I’ll be buying some cattle along the way, just so we stay within the law.”
Dag counted out sixty dollars and handed the bills to Flagg. Jubal folded them and stuck them in the left front pocket of his trousers.
“Now hop to it, Dag. I want to see those two men I’m going to ride with tonight.”
Dag thought of whom he might tell to go with Flagg. He had a pair of fairly new hands he thought would fit the bill.
Jimmy Gough was still wrestling with the growing remuda. Gough had brought in a dozen horses that morning, then had left to bring in a half dozen more. Matlee was supposed to bring more in the morning, but they still needed to find more that could make the long trip. Dag wanted at least sixty-five horses, and they all had to be sound, freshly shod, with good bottoms and none lame or otherwise afflicted. The men were close, but needed a few more, which Matlee had promised to bring the next day. Jimmy was putting on hobbles with the help of the two men Dag had in mind to go with Flagg.
“Jimmy,” Dag called, “can you spare those two new wranglers helping you?”
“Them two ain’t horse wranglers by any stretch of the imagination. You can have ’em both, Dag. One of ’em’s classy as a pig on ice and t’other is a pure fumble-fingered fool. Neither one of ’em understands two words of English.” Jimmy turned to face the two boys, who were down on their knees trying to set hobbles on the same horse. “Pancho, you and Cholo go on over yonder with Mr. Dagstaff. Vete pronto allá.”
The two boys muttered something in Spanish, but Dag couldn’t hear it. They walked over as if they had all the time in the world. Their pants and shirts were covered with sweat, and the sweat had caked the dirt that clung to their clothing.
“Dag, are these two wetbacks cowboys?” Flagg asked.
“Sure, Jubal. They’re young, but they’re good with cows. They’re just not too good with horses yet.”
“Can they ride without being tied on with rope?”
Dag laughed. “Yeah, they can ride. Jimmy’s just right particular, that’s all.”
“Boys, come here,” Flagg said. “You speak English?”
Both young men nodded.
“What’s your name, feller?” Flagg asked the taller of the two.
“Paco Noriega.”
“And, you, what’s your name?”
“Ricardo Mendoza.”
“How come Jimmy called you Pancho and Cholo.”
“He don’t like us much,” Paco said. “He knows our names. He makes fun of us.”
“You know cows?” Flagg asked.
“Yes, the cows, we know them,” Paco said.