The Badlands Trail Read online

  Now he was older than his father ever lived to be, and it occurred to him that most folks—in Atoka, anyway—regarded him as wealthy. Sometimes, facing his reflection in the mirror, Dixon reckoned it was mostly true.

  Which didn’t mean that he could stay home, rocking on the porch, and let Bill Pickering command the trail drive to St. Louis. Dixon wasn’t that old yet, and when the time came, if he lived that long, he just might sell the spread and find a city place, maybe in Dallas or its new neighbor Fort Worth.

  But not just yet.

  He scanned the upturned faces of the drovers ranged before him, wishing he could pick out anyone among them who was likely to go sour on the trail. He’d trusted Pickering to hire them, but that didn’t mean that all of them would go the distance without problems. Every drive he’d been on, there were quarrels that had to be resolved and some that couldn’t be, so that he had to part with badly needed hands. He hoped there would be less of that, this time around, but Dixon never liked to bet on human nature to come shining through.

  You could have heard a pin drop when he started speaking to his men.

  “We’ve got a long trip waiting for us,” he reminded them. “Five hundred miles and then some till our payday in St. Louis, and I hope to get there with the herd intact. Remember that your pay depends on it. Each steer we lose along the way, and any weight loss by the ones that make it through, comes out of my pocket, and that means less for each of you. I can’t predict what we’ll run into down the road, won’t even try. It calls for every one of us to stay and do our very best, no matter what the job demands. Focus on that, we ought to be all right. Questions?”

  No one spoke up or raised a hand, which suited Dixon fine.

  “Okay, then,” he concluded. “Stash your bedrolls on the chuck wagon, mount up, and get these critters on the trail. Time’s money, gentlemen.”

  * * *

  * * *

  LONGHORNS WERE DIFFERENT from other cattle Bishop had worked on other spreads in Texas, and particularly farther north. First, their horns could reach a two-yard span or half again that much on ancient bulls, and served as deadly weapons if the steers were riled. A drover caught in a longhorn stampede might wish that he was facing hostile Indians instead.

  Another thing: they were descended from the New World’s oldest cattle, spawned in far-off Arab lands and shipped across by Christopher Columbus, their numbers mounting with the Spanish colonists who’d followed him long before the Pilgrims got around to fetching up on Plymouth Rock. Predominantly white and dark red, they were a hardy breed, resistant to the Southwest’s frequent droughts and scarcity of feed, in the sixty-pound range at birth, up to five feet at the shoulder in maturity, weighing from fourteen hundred to twenty-five hundred pounds.

  The trick was keeping most of that weight on their bones while traveling five hundred miles or more across rough country, over hills and valleys, fording rivers as required, and always stopping where the herd was free to graze all night. As Gavin Dixon had reminded them, each steer they lost along the way—from snakebite, broken legs, or rustling—meant their payoff at trail’s end would be reduced.

  Their boss couldn’t hand over money that he hadn’t made.

  The drovers weren’t guaranteed to reach St. Louis either. The Circle K provided no insurance if one of them died along the way or got stove up somehow and couldn’t pull his weight. Dixon was required to pay a cowboy for the time he worked, not for being dragged along on a travois through trail dust. Dead men were worth less on a trail drive than a wagon with a busted wheel, since that could be repaired.

  If one of them died en route, their payout was a prairie grave, trampled into invisibility by longhorns’ hooves.

  The steers were penned in large corrals and well fed in close captivity so they’d start the drive with weight to spare, then closely examined to make sure that none of them were lame or otherwise injured. Once they were on the move, nature would take its course over the next two months or so.

  It was like gambling, in a way, except the stakes were life and death for all concerned.

  Riding his snowflake Appaloosa stallion, christened Compañero—“Partner”—by the Mexican horse trader in Nogales he’d bought it from sometime back, Bishop kept pace with Mr. Dixon’s other drovers as they nudged, cajoled, and cursed the longhorns from their pens and into a formation that he knew would bear consistent watching once they left the Circle K.

  Drovers would have to watch for any strays while traveling by daylight, and the men assigned to riding herd at night were duty bound to keep the steers from spreading out too far, while also remaining alert for any predators, whether the ravenous four-legged kind or bandits bent on rustling cattle any way they could.

  In that case, Toby knew there would be gunplay, and while that was nothing new to him, he didn’t relish it.

  The whole point of his ride across the line from Texas was to leave all that behind him if he could.

  * * *

  * * *

  WHERE’D YOU SAY you come from?” Pastor Lott inquired.

  “I never said,” Bishop replied.

  They were together on the herd’s southwestern flank, Lott riding on a chestnut gelding brought from home—described to anyone who’d listen as a little Texas town called Bitter Root. They both had sandwiches prepared by Mel Varney, the drive’s trail cook: cold roasted beef on buttered bread and not half-bad.

  “That’s right, I recollect now,” Lott said, talking with his mouth full. “Must have mixed you up with someone else. But now you mention it—”

  “I didn’t,” Toby said.

  “All right, then. I apologize for being nosy, son. Don’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s not that,” Bishop answered back, although it was precisely that. Then said, “Most recently, I’m out of Mason County.”

  “Texas?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “That rings a bell,” Lott granted. “Something I should know about.” He chewed and swallowed, then came out with it. “I’ve got it now. The so-called Hoodoo War.”

  So-called was right. There wasn’t a thing about Mason County’s troubles that had to do with voodoo.

  “I never understood that name,” Lott said, as if reading his trail companion’s thoughts.

  “From what I hear,” Toby replied, “it had to do with vigilantes wearing masks when they went out to hunt for rustlers.”

  Steers were at the bottom of it, countless head stolen by rustlers and sold across the Rio Grande in Mexico. No herd was safe from depredation, though at first it seemed the county’s German immigrant homesteaders suffered greater losses than their Anglo neighbors.

  The conflict between the rustlers and vigilantes hunting them had turned into a chauvinistic thing, Germans against “Americans.” Toby had departed from the war zone after a few months of gunwork.

  In any case, a recent arson fire had razed the Mason County courthouse, taking with it all official records of the Hoodoo War, sparing participants who’d managed to survive from the embarrassment of being charged and facing trial.

  “I hope you didn’t get mixed up in that,” said Pastor Lott.

  “I try to mind my own business,” Bishop replied, thinking it wasn’t quite a bald-faced lie.

  * * *

  * * *

  WATCH OUT FOR them steers straying over there!” Bill Pickering commanded, pointing toward a trio of longhorns who seemed about to lose their way and wander off westward.

  “We’re on it,” Whitney Melville told him, riding off with Boone Hightower to retrieve the truant steers.

  So far, so good, thought Pickering, but it was still day one, another four, five hours until dusk, and anything could pop up to surprise them in the heart of Indian country.

  From what Pickering knew, the problems with that unofficial territory spanned three-quarters of a
century, without considering the wars and massacres that started almost from the day England’s first colonists set foot on the East Coast. The native tribes, present for umpteen thousand years before white Europeans first “discovered” the Americas, resisted being driven from their homes and hunting grounds as anybody would, but always wound up on the losing end. By 1803, tribes were ceding their ancestral lands and trekking at gunpoint to dwell on “reserves” set aside to protect them—white leaders claimed—from mistreatment by westbound settlers.

  When Fort Sumter set America on fire, most of Indian country’s reluctant inhabitants belonged to “Five Civilized Tribes”: the Chickasaw, Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek (or Muscogee), and Florida’s Seminole. In short order, all five tribes signed “friendship” treaties with the breakaway Confederacy. Most sat out the bloodbath if permitted to, but some donned Rebel gray and fought against the Union, not defending chattel slavery but striking back at Uncle Sam, who’d forced them into exile from their homes.

  In June of 1865, two months after Appomattox and Lincoln’s assassination, the last Rebel commander to surrender on American soil was Brigadier General Stand Watie, commanding the Cherokee Nation, driven into exile and death. The postwar Reconstruction treaties hammered out in 1866 and ’67 granted amnesty to ex-Confederate Indians and “promised” Washington would keep hands off their tribal organizations, while tribal leaders ceded rights-of-way for railroad and telegraph lines cutting swaths through Indian country for corporate profit.

  Most recently, in March of 1871, another Indian Appropriations Act broke Washington’s four-year-old promise of relative independence, formally dissolving all Indian “nations,” making individual tribe members “wards” of the federal government, claiming more land from various tribes, and barring red men from voting, buying liquor, or in any other way offending whites. Transgression prompted U.S. troops to chastise those who broke the rules, sometimes with help from gunmen hired by white land barons.

  It was no surprise, therefore, that certain tribesmen fled their reservations, taking to a last-ditch warpath when and where they could, inflicting damage on their longtime persecutors before tumbling into shallow prairie graves. Bill Pickering could sympathize and see their side of things, but only to a point.

  When push came down to shove, he stood with other members of his race, holding the line for what some folks called civilized society.

  More movement on the herd’s flank caught his eye. He zeroed in on it and counted four more straying steers.

  “Floyd! Esperanza!” he shouted. “Wake up there, will you? Get those dogies back in line!”

  * * *

  * * *

  AFTER A FEW miles, Bishop realized that Pastor Lott couldn’t rein in his gabbling. As they rode along, he talked about the landscape, its flora and fauna, his background, and what he called his “ministry.” From what he said—at least, the parts Bishop absorbed—said ministry consisted of an endless circuit through the South and border states, sharing “the good news” with anyone who’d hold still long enough.

  When he’d exhausted those topics, Lott came around once more to Bishop, asking him, “Are you expecting any kind of trouble on this drive?”

  “I haven’t really thought about it,” Bishop said.

  Which was a lie, of course. He had been bucking trouble ever since he’d fled the worked-out family farm, and seldom failed to find it anywhere. He’d killed his first man at eighteen, a clear-cut case of self-defense against a drunken bully, but the local law had kicked him out of town regardless. Since then, he’d been drifting aimlessly, his overriding goals being warm weather, peace, and quiet, until Mason County’s war soured all that.

  “I wonder about injuns,” Lott confessed. “I suppose they’re mostly on one reservation or another now, but still . . .”

  “As long as you’re aware of it,” Bishop replied, “just take things as they come.”

  “That’s sound advice, friend. Thing is . . . well . . . I’ve never had to harm another person, much less killing.”

  “There’s no reason to suppose you ever will.”

  “I’m hoping not. You know, the Sixth Commandment says—”

  “I’ve read it,” Bishop interrupted him. “From what I understand, it’s meant to say, ‘Thou shalt not murder.’ Going back to Cain and Abel, nothing that I know of in the Bible bars a man from self-defense, and they were always fighting wars. God ordered lots of those Himself.”

  “You know your Good Book, son.”

  “I wouldn’t claim to be an expert, but I’d say I’ve got the basics down.”

  That silenced Lott, but only for a minute, give or take. “I’ve prayed on this,” he said, no longer able to contain himself. “I’ve asked the Lord to keep us all from harm and lead us not into temptation.”

  “You reckon he was listening?” Bishop replied, only half-serious.

  “He always listens,” Lott replied. “He doesn’t always answer, though. And when he does, it might not be the answer you were hoping for.”

  “Amen to that, Preacher.”

  It was the major reason why he’d given up on praying altogether. Never quite convinced that anyone could hear him, or was interested in the first place, he had learned to deal with problems as they came, not begging help from Someone he could neither hear nor see.

  Bishop was hoping for some relief from fighting, at least until they reached St. Louis. Failing that, he would meet trouble in the only way he knew.

  Head-on.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SUPPER THEIR FOURTH night on the trail was pretty much the same as every other meal served from the chuck wagon so far: a slab of meat, some beans, with bread and coffee on the side. In place of beef this time, however, Mel Varney had given them smoked pork.

  The kid who came around collecting plates and silverware was Rudy Knapp. Known to the other hands as Varney’s “hoodlum” or his “little Mary,” he was tasked with chopping firewood, peeling spuds, and washing up after their meals. Bishop surmised that he was fifteen, maybe sixteen years of age, longing to be a cowboy but diverted to the role of kitchen help.

  Still, for a boy fed up with school, it just might prove to be a start.

  At what?

  Droving wasn’t a life Bishop had ever pined for, though he didn’t mind hard, honest work. It beat plowing and planting, hoping Mother Nature would be kind and let a decent crop survive, instead of blighting it with too much heat, too little rain, and pests that lived for ruining a hard-luck farmer’s dreams.

  In Bishop’s mind, it also beat owning a spread, trying to raise a herd for profit, nursing them through sickness—hoof-and-mouth, whatever—and patrolling to defend stock against predators, supplying feed and water during droughts and shelter during winter storms. On top of that, finances needed reconciliation, and you always had at least one bill collector knocking on your door.

  If there was one thing Toby Bishop didn’t crave, it was responsibility for other lives.

  He’d traveled that route more than once, though never as a landowner, and the results were mostly negative.

  Tonight, he had first watch, along with Curly Odom and Deke Sullivan. He’d caught a break when Graham Lott drew an assignment to the second shift, sparing Bishop from uninvited monologues.

  Three drovers at a time kept eyes on Mr. Dixon’s stock for a three-hour turn, then packed it in when their replacements came on duty. During those three hours, men on watch spread out and circulated, singing to the animals if they felt like it, otherwise just watching out for danger in the dark.

  A threat requiring action might be animal or human. Coyotes and the like would be repelled by any means required or shot if they refused to take a hint. A human prowler, on the other hand, shouldn’t expect a chance to cut and run.

  There was no good reason for anyone to sneak around a herd once it was bedded down. Therefore guards on n
ight watch assumed that any trespassers were armed and nursing bad intentions. Rustling ranked first among the possibilities for devilment, but Bishop had heard tales of drifters looting chuck wagons—and once about a drover who was stalked and murdered on a cattle drive by the brothers of a girl he’d left with child.

  Orders were simple when it came to lurking strangers. Order them to stand fast for a meeting with the trail boss, tossing any weapons that they might be carrying. A prowler who attacked or tried to flee was forfeiting his life. Cowboys who couldn’t bring themselves to pull a trigger normally weren’t hired.

  Bishop had no qualms about shooting if it came to that, no fear that it would spoil his sleep, but as he mounted Compañero, he was hoping that his shift would pass without that need.

  An hour into it, he thought his luck had soured.

  Deke Sullivan was crooning to the herd, an off-key but passable “Oh! Susanna,” circling around to Bishop’s south, some eighty yards distant. Curly Odom was riding to the east of Dixon’s lowing herd, marked by the glowing ember of a hand-rolled smoke.

  So, who or what was moving in the brush ahead of Bishop and a little to his left?

  It struck him as a stealthy kind of movement, almost creeping, but not the sound of footsteps. Bishop, his hackles rising, tugged at Compañero’s reins and steered the snowflake Appaloosa toward whatever might be rustling in the tallgrass up ahead. He drew his Colt.

  It was a Frontier Six-Shooter, nicknamed the “Peacemaker,” its barrel shortened from the Single Action Army model’s seven inches down to four and three-quarters. Chambered for the same .44-40 cartridges his Yellow Boy Winchester used, the pistol saved Bishop from carrying two kinds of ammunition and still delivered a punch on par with the parent gun’s .45 caliber.

  With luck, Bishop could drop a man-sized target out to thirty yards or so, but in his personal experience most pistol fights were won or lost at ten to fifteen feet.