The Texans by Bill Pronzini & Martin H. Greenberg (eds.)

Author:Bill Pronzini & Martin H. Greenberg (eds.) [Pronzini, Bill & Greenberg, Martin H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Western Fiction
Publisher: Fawcett Gold Medal
Published: 1988-08-01T23:00:00+00:00

Last night I was on guard and the leaders broke the ranks,

I hit my horse down the shoulders and I spurred him in the flanks!

The wind began to blow and the rain began to fall.

Hit looked, by grab, like we was goin’ to lose ’em all!

North of Yellowhouse, a brisk and businesslike man, carrying authority for the CV and other brands, met the Hackamore herd. Sam Cashmole made him welcome, fed him at the wagon, and proffered a horse. The stranger needed no horse for he led a spare and, after dinner, worked the herd, bunched and held for his convenience. The trail cutter was complimentary when he had finished.

“As clean a bunch as I’ve worked this year,” he announced. “You must of been extra careful, Cashmole.”

“We’ve tried to be,” Sam Cashmole answered piously. “Better stay the night with us.”

The trail cutter spoke his thanks but refused the offer. When he was gone, Cashmole addressed the crew. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll be out of Goodnight’s country. I wouldn’t want to start anything with that old man around. Two-three days and we’ll be across the line. After that you can tum loose your wolf.”

Next day the route led straight west and so for two days following, then curved north again. Now, when native cattle appeared, curious and eager to join the marching ranks of steers, Dan and Church rode out as usual. Some they drove off, but others—cattle that offered contrast in neither size nor sex—they added to the herd. Not many; just a few. Any trail herd was bound to collect some strays and if Sam Cashmole’s Hackamores arrived at market with more than ordinary—why then, who would question them?

“Just don’t be greedy, boys,” Cashmole advised. “There ain’t no use in bein’ reckless.”

The Hackamore herd passed well north of Fort Sumner and, reaching the Pecos, followed up the stream. Then, leaving the river, they entered upon a broad and grass-grown plain, flanked on either side by broken country. So far the march had been uneventful, the steers handling like well drilled troops; but now, daily, storm clouds appeared to north and west and were eyed apprehensively.

“Makin’ big,” Dan McKee stated. “It wouldn’t surprise me none if the boss didn’t call a rain guard tonight.”

Sam Cashmole called the rain guard, splitting the crew in half. As part of the second guard, Dan and Church turned in but not to sleep. They watched lightning flicker along the horizon and heard the thunder roll. Big raindrops splatted down, the wind blew steadily and, suddenly, the rain was a torrent.

“Here’s hell!” Dan shouted above the wind. “Come on!”

They fought their way to their night horses, mounted and started to the cattle. Before they reached the herd, they knew that it was moving.

A figure loomed up beside Dan and Ben Spam’s voice came to him. “They ain’t runnin’. They just got up an’ walked away. We couldn’t hold ’em.”

“Stay with ’em!” Dan called and, turning with the wind, went with the cattle. He was ahead of them; he planned to stay ahead.

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