The Trail Driver Read online

  Texas Joe left camp to climb the ridge from which he surveyed the valley. Evidently he was satisfied with what he saw. Brite’s opinion was that the cattle would not stray. It was unusual, however, to leave them unguarded for even a moment. Presently Smith appeared to be studying the land to the north. Upon his return to camp he announced.

  “Trail riders haided for Santone. An’ there’s a lone hawseman ridin’ in from ‘cross country.”

  “Wal, Shipman, we’ll shore see more riders than we want on this trip,” said Brite.

  “Ahuh, I reckon.”

  “Boss, yu mean painted riders?” spoke up Ackerman.

  “Not particular, if we’re lucky. I had to feed a lot of Comanches last trip. But they made no trouble. I reckon the riders thet bother me most are the drifters an’ trail dodgers.”

  “Boss, mebbe we’ll be an ootfit thet breed had better pass up,” drawled Shipman.

  “Wal, I hope so. Yu cain’t never tell what yore ootfit is until it’s tried.”

  “Tried by what, Mr. Brite?” asked the tenderfoot Bender, with great curiosity.

  The boss laughed at this query. Before he could reply Shipman spoke up: “Boy, it’s jest what happens along.”

  “Nothing happened today in all that nice long ride. I’ve an idea these trail dangers are exaggerated.”

  Suddenly one of Ackerman’s boys let out a stentorian : “Haw! Haw!” This would probably have started something but for the cook’s yell following and almost as loud. “Yo-all come an’ git it!”

  There ensued a merry scramble, and then a sudden silence. Hungry boys seldom wasted time to talk. Brite called for Moze to fetch his dinner over under the tree. It took no second glance for the boss to be assured that this cook was a treasure.

  The sun set in a cloudless, golden sky. An occasional bawl of a cow from the stream bottom broke the silence. A cooling zephyr of wind came through the grove, rustling the leaves, wafting the camp-fire smoke away. Brite had a sense of satisfaction at being on the Trail again and out in the open. Much of his life had been spent that way.

  “Moze, where yu from?” asked Shipman, as he arose.

  “Ise a Alabama niggah, sah,” replied Moze, with a grin. “Thet’s what they calls me. Alabama.”

  “Wal, so long’s yu feed me like this I’ll shore keep the redskins from scalpin’ yu.”

  “Den I’ll be awful sho to feed yu dat way.”

  “Wal, boys, I hate to say it, but we gotta get on guard,” went on Shipman, addressing the outfit. “There’s ten of us. Four on till midnight, three till three o’clock, an’ three till mawnin’. Who goes on duty with me now?”

  They all united in a choice of this early-night duty.

  “Shipman, I’ll take my turn,” added Brite.

  “Wal, I’ll be dog-goned,” drawled the foreman. “What kind of an ootfit is this heah? Yu all want to work. An’ the boss, too!”

  “Fust night oot,” said some one.

  “I reckon I gotta make myself disliked,” returned Shipman, resignedly. “Bender, yu saddle yore hawse. Lester, same for yu. An’, Smith, I reckon I’d feel kinda safe with yu oot there.”

  “Suits me fine. I never sleep, anyhow,” replied the outlaw, rising with alacrity.

  “Deuce, I’ll wake yu at midnight or thereaboots. Yu pick yore two guards. …An’ say, boss, I ‘most forgot. Who’s gonna wrangle the hawses. Thet’s a big drove we got.”

  “Shore, but they’re not wild. Herd them on good grass with the cattle.”

  “All right, we’ll round them up. But we ought to have some one regular on thet job. …Wal, so long. It’s a lucky start.”

  Brite agreed with this last statement of his foreman, despite the strange presentiment that came vaguely at odd moments. The Brite herd of forty-five hundred head, trail-branded with three brands before they had been bought, had a good start on the herds behind, and full three weeks after the last one that had gone north. Grass and water should be abundant, except in spots. Cattle could go days without grass, if they had plenty of water. It had been rather a backward spring, retarding the buffalo on their annual migration north. Brite concluded they would run into buffalo somewhere north of the Red River.

  “Moze, couldya use some fresh meat?” called Deuce Ackerman.

  “Ise got a whole quarter of beef,” replied Moze. “An’ yo knows, Mars Ackerman, Ise a economical cook.”

  “I saw a bunch of deer. Some venison shore would go good. Come on, Ben. We’ve a half-hour more of daylight yet.”

  The two drivers secured rifles and disappeared in the grove. Hallett impressively acquainted Little with the fact that he was going to take a bath. That worthy expressed amaze and consternation. “My Gawd! Roy, what ails yu? We’ll be fordin’ rivers an’ creeks every day pronto. Ain’t thet so, boss?”

  “It shore is, an’ if they’re high an’ cold yu’ll get all the water yu want for ten years,” returned Brite.

  “I’m gonna, anyway,” said Hallett.

  “Roy, I’ll go if yu’ll pull off my boots. They ain’t been off for a week.”

  “Shore. Come on.”

  Soon the camp was deserted save for the whistling Moze and Brite, who took pains about unrolling his canvas and spreading his blanket. A good bed was what a trail driver yearned for and seldom got. At least, mostly he did not get to lie in it long at a stretch. That done, Brite filled his pipe for a smoke. The afterglow burned in the west and against that gold a solitary rider on a black horse stood silhouetted dark and wild. A second glance assured Brite that it was not an Indian. Presently he headed the horse down into the Swale and disappeared among the trees. Brite expected this stranger to ride into camp. Strangers, unfortunately many of them undesirable, were common along the Chisholm Trail. This one emerged from the brush, having evidently crossed the stream farther above, and rode up, heading for the chuck-wagon. Before the rider stopped Brite answered to a presagement not at all rare in him—that there were meetings and meetings along the trail. This one was an event.

  “Howdy, cook. Will yu give me a bite of grub before yu throw it oot?” the rider asked, in a youthful, resonant voice.

  “Sho I will, boy. But Ise tellin’ yo nuthin’ ever gits throwed away wid dis chile cookin’. Jus’ yo git down an’ come in.”

  Brite observed that the horse was not a mustang, but a larger and finer breed than the tough little Spanish species. Moreover, he was a magnificent animal, black as coal, clean-limbed and heavy-chested, with the head of a racer. His rider appeared to be a mere boy, who, when he wearily slid off, showed to be slight of stature, though evidently round and strong of limb. He sat down cross-legged with the pan of food Moze gave him. Brite strolled over with the hope that he might secure another trail driver.

  “Howdy, cowboy. All alone?” he said, genially.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the boy, looking up and as quickly looking down again. The act, however, gave Brite time to see a handsome face, tanned darkly gold, and big, dark, deep eyes that had a furtive, if not a hunted, look.

  “Whar yu from?”

  “Nowhere, I reckon.”

  “Lone cowboy, eh? Wal, thet’s interestin’ to me. I’m short on riders. Do yu want a job? My name’s Brite an’ I’m drivin’ forty-five hundred haid north to Dodge. Ever do any trail drivin’?”

  “No, sir. But I’ve rode cattle all my life.”

  “Ahuh. Wal, thet cain’t be a very long while, son. Aboot how old air yu?”

  “Sixteen. But I feel a hundred.”

  “Whar’s yore home?”

  “I haven’t any.”

  “No? Wal, yu don’t say? Whar’s yore folks, then?”

  “I haven’t any, Mr. Brite. …My dad an’ mom were killed by Indians when I was a kid.”

  “Aw, too bad, son. Thet’s happened to so many Texas lads. …What yu been doin’ since?”

  “Ridin’ from one ranch to another. I cain’t hold a job long.”

  “Why not? Yu’re a likely-lookin’ youngster.”
/>   “Reckon I don’t stand up good under the hardest ridin’. …An’ there’s other reasons.”

  “How aboot hawse-wranglin’?”

  “Thet’d suit me fine. …Would yu give me a job?”

  “Wal, I don’t see why not. Finish yore supper, lad. Then come have a talk with me.”

  All this while Brite stood gazing down at the youth, changing from curiosity to sympathy and interest. Not once after the first time did the boy look up. There were holes in his battered old black sombrero, through one of which peeped a short curl of red-gold hair. He had shapely brown hands, rather small, but supple and strong. The end of a heavy gun-sheath protruded from his jacket on the left side. He wore overalls, high-top Mexican boots, and huge spurs, all the worse for long service.

  Brite went back to his comfortable seat under the pecan tree. From there his second glance at the horse discovered a canvas pack behind the saddle. The old cattleman mused that it was only necessary to get out over this wild, broad Texas range to meet with sad and strange and tragic experiences. How many, many Texas sons were like this youth! The vast range exacted a hard and bloody toll from the pioneers.

  Dusk had fallen when the boy came over to present himself before the cattleman.

  “My name is Bayne—Reddie Bayne,” he announced, almost shyly.

  “Red-haided, eh?”

  “Not exactly. But I wasn’t named for my hair. Reddie is my real given name.”

  “Wal, no matter. Any handle is good enough in Texas. Did yu ever heah of Liver-eatin’ Kennedy or Dirty-face Jones or Pan Handle Smith?”

  “I’ve heahed of the last, shore.”

  “Wal, yu’ll see him pronto. He’s ridin’ for me this trip. …Air yu goin’ to accept my offer?”

  “I’ll take the job. Yes, sir. Thanks.”

  “What wages?”

  “Mr. Brite, I’ll ride for my keep.”

  “No, I cain’t take yu up on thet. It’s a tough job up the Trail. Say thirty dollars a month?”

  “Thet’s more than I ever earned. …When do I begin?”

  “Mawnin’ will be time enough, son. Shipman an’ the boys have bunched the hawses for the night.”

  “How many haid in yore remuda?”

  “Nigh on to two hundred. More’n we need, shore. But they’re all broke an’ won’t give much trouble. Yu see, when we get to Dodge I sell cattle, hawses, wagon, everythin’.”

  “I’ve heahed so much aboot this Chisholm Trail. I rode ‘cross country clear from Bendera, hopin’ to catch on with a trail-drive.”

  “Wal, yu’ve ketched on, Reddie, an’ I shore hope yu don’t regret it.”

  “Gosh! I’m glad. …An’ if I have, I’d better unsaddle Sam.”

  Bayne led the black under an adjoining pecan, and slipping saddle, bridle, and pack, turned him loose. Presently the lad returned to sit down in the shadow.

  “How many in yore ootfit, Mr. Brite?”

  “An even dozen now, countin’ yu.”

  “Regular Texas ootfit?”

  “Shore. It’s Texas, all right. But new to me. I’ve got a hunch it’ll turn oot regular Texas an’ then some. Texas Joe Shipman is my Trail boss. He’s been up three times, an’ thet shore makes him an old-stager. Lucky for me. The rest is a mixed bunch except five Uvalde boys. Fire-eatin’ kids, I’ll bet! There’s a tenderfoot from Pennsylvania, Bender by name. Shipman’s pard, Less Holden. A Carolinian named Whittaker. If he’s as good as he looks he couldn’t be no better. An’ last Pan Handle Smith. He’s a gunman an’ outlaw, Bayne. But like some of his class he’s shore salt of the earth.”

  “Ten. Countin’ yu an’ me an’ the cook makes thirteen. Thet’s unlucky, Mr. Brite.”

  “Thirteen. So ‘tis.”

  “Perhaps I’d better rode on. I don’t want to bring yu bad luck.”

  “Boy, yu’ll be good luck.”

  “Oh, I hope so. I’ve been bad luck to so many ootfits,” replied the youth, with a sigh.

  Brite was struck at the oddity of that reply, but thought better of added curiosity. Then Deuce Ackerman and Chandler came rustling out of the shadow, coincident with the return of Little and Hallett.

  “Boss, I seen a dog-gone fine black hawse oot heah. No pony. Big thoroughbred. I didn’t see him in our remuda,” declared Ackerman.

  “Belongs to Reddie Bayne heah. He just rode up an’ threw in with us. …Bayne, heah’s four of the Uvalde boys.”

  “Howdy, all,” rejoined the rider.

  “Howdy yoreself, cowboy,” said Ackerman, stepping forward to peer down. “I cain’t see yu, but I’m dog-gone glad to meet yu. …Boys, Reddie Bayne sounds like a Texas handle.”

  The other Uvalde boys called welcome greetings. Some one threw brush on the fire, which blazed up cheerily. It was noticeable, however, that Bayne did not approach the camp fire.

  “Boss, did yu heah me shoot?” queried Ackerman.

  “No. Did yu?”

  “I shore did. Had an easy shot at a buck. But the light was bad an’ I missed. I’ll plug one in the mawnin’.”

  “Deuce, if yu’d let me have the rifle we’d got the deer meat all right,” declared Ben.

  “Is thet so? I’ll bet yu I can beat yu any old day!”

  “What’ll yu bet?”

  “Wal, I hate to take yore money, but——”

  “Ssssh! Riders comin’,” interrupted Ackerman, in a sharp whisper.

  Brite heard the thud of hoofs off under the trees. Horses were descending the road from above.

  “Cain’t be any of our ootfit,” went on Ackerman, peering into the darkness. “Fellars, we may as wal be ready for anythin’.”

  Dark forms of horses and riders loomed in the outer circle of camp-fire light. They halted.

  “Who comes?” called out Ackerman, and his young voice had a steely ring.

  “Friends,” came a gruff reply.

  “Wal, advance friends an’ let’s see yu.”

  Just then a hard little hand clutched Brite’s arm. He turned to see Reddie Bayne kneeling beside him. The lad’s sombrero was off, exposing his face. It was pale, and the big dark eyes burned.

  “Wallen! He’s after me,” whispered Bayne, hoarsely. “Don’t let him——”

  Brite gripped the lad and gave him a little shake. “Keep still.”

  The riders approached the camp fire, but did not come close enough to be distinctly seen. The leader appeared to be of stalwart frame, dark of face, somehow forceful and forbidding. Brite had seen a hundred men like him ride into Texas camps.

  “Trail drivers, huh?” he queried, with gleaming eyes taking in the boys round the camp fire.

  “Wal, we ain’t Comanche Injuns,” retorted Deuce, curtly.

  “Who’s ootfit?”

  “Brite, of Santone. We got four thousand haid an’ twenty drivers. Any more yu want to know?”

  “Reckon yu took on a new rider lately, huh?”

  “Wal, if we did——”

  Brite rose to stride out into the firelight.

  “Who’re yu an’ what’s yore business heah?”

  “My name’s Wallen. From Braseda. We tracked a—a young—wal, a fellar whose handle was Reddie Bayne.”

  “Reddie Bayne. So thet was thet rider’s name? What yu trackin’ him for?”

  “Thet’s my business. Is he heah?”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “Wal then, he was heah, Brite.”

  “Shore. Had supper with us. An’ then he cut oot for Santone. Reckon he’s there by now. What yu say, Deuce?”

  “Reddie was forkin’ a fast hawse,” replied Ackerman, casually.

  “Any camps between heah an’ Santone?” went on the rider.

  “Not when we passed along. May be by this time.”

  “Brite, if yu don’t mind we’ll spend the night heah,” said Wallen, speculatively.

  “Wal, stranger, I’m sorry. One of my rules is not to be too hospitable on the old Trail,” drawled Brite. “Yu see thet sort of thing has cost me too much.
”

  “Air yu handin’ me a slap?” queried Wallen, roughly.

  “No offense. Just my rule, thet’s all.”

  “Ahuh. Wal, it’s a damn pore rule for a Texan.”

  “Shore,” agreed Brite, coolly.

  The rider wheeled, cursing under his breath, and, accompanied by his silent companion, thudded off into the darkness. Brite waited until he could make sure they took the road, then he returned to the spot where he had left the lad. Bayne sat against the tree. By the dim light Brite saw the gleam of a gun in his hand.

  “Wal, I steered them off, Bayne,” said Brite. “Hope I did yu a good turn.”

  “Yu bet yu did. …Thank yu—Mr. Brite,” replied the lad in a low voice.

  Deuce Ackerman had followed Brite under the tree. Boss, thet Wallen shore didn’t get nowheres with me. Strikes me I’d seen him some place.”

  “Who is Wallen, son?”

  “Rancher I rode for over Braseda way.”

  “What’s he got against yu?”

  There was no reply. Ackerman bent over to peer down. “Throwed yore hardware, hey, Reddie? Wal, I don’t blame yu. Now, cowboy, come clean if yu want to, or keep mum. It’s all the same to us.”

  “Thank yu. …I’m no rustler—or thief—or anythin’ bad. …It was just … Oh, I cain’t tell yu,” replied the lad, with emotion.

  “Ahuh. Wal, then it must be somethin’ to do aboot a gurl?”

  “Yes. …Somethin’ aboot a gurl,” hurriedly replied Bayne.

  “I’ve been there, cowboy. …But I hope thet hombre wasn’t her dad. ‘Cause she’s liable to be an orphan.”

  Ackerman returned to the camp fire, calling out: “Roll in, fellers. Yu’re a-gonna need sleep this heah trip.”

  “Bayne, I’m shore glad it wasn’t anythin’ bad,” said Brite, in a kindly tone.

  One of the boys rekindled the fire, which burned up brightly. By its light the old cattleman had a better view of young Bayne’s face. The hard and bitter expression appeared softening. He made a forlorn little figure that touched Brite.

  “I—I’ll tell yu—sometime—if yu won’t give me away,” whispered the lad, and then hurried off into the darkness.