Luke's Gold (2 page)

He found it difficult to believe that Billy was actually gone, his final breath taken by the hand of Cade himself. His mind was flooded with thoughts of his childhood, most of them recollections of stories his father had told him about the horse. He used to tell Cade that Billy was confused. Cade thought Billy was part dog, especially when as a toddler Cade wandered into the pasture and the horse took it upon himself to keep an eye on the boy. Cade's father said he could always find the youngster by looking out across the pasture to see where Billy was grazing.

John Hunter often told his son of the day he was repairing fences, and paused to see where Cade had wandered off to. As usual, he spotted Billy apart from the other horses, but the horse was acting strange. John stood and watched for a few minutes before deciding to ride over and investigate.

Little Cade had been playing near an outcropping of rocks at the lower end of the pasture. What had piqued John's interest was the way Billy appeared to be annoying the child, repeatedly circling him, and often nudging Cade, making him sit down on the ground. As John approached, he saw that little Cade was crying, frustrated with Billy's refusal to let him play in peace. Seeing the boy's father ride up, Billy stood still and waited. “What's got into you, Billy?” John said, and started to dismount. Before he took his foot out of the stirrup, his horse squealed and reared back a couple of steps. John then saw the cause of the horse's fright: a rattlesnake coiled on the rocks, rattles vibrating in angry warning. It was a story some folks found hard to believe, but John Hunter swore that the horse saved his son's life that day.

 

Cade shook his head sadly and holstered his pistol, telling himself that standing around lamenting the loss of the faithful old horse was nothing more than wasting time. Knowing it was going to take a little work to accomplish, he set about getting his saddle off Billy's carcass. Gentle and cooperative to the end, Billy had thoughtfully come to settle his body across the edge of a shallow gully after tumbling headfirst and throwing Cade clear of the saddle. As a result, the job of getting the cinches of the three-quarter-double-rigged saddle out from under him was a great deal easier. Even so, Cade had to find a stout limb to use as a pry bar before he managed to pull his saddle free of the body. Saddle, saddlebags, a Winchester '73, a Colt Peacemaker, and the rest of his tack, made up the bulk of his worldly possessions. There was also the few dollars he had left from the last cattle drive for Mr. Henry Travis down on the Cimarron. The money was tucked inside his extra shirt in his war bag. The war bag, which was no more than a two-bushel cotton grain sack, held his extra clothing and personal items. Every cowpuncher carried one. Now he found himself on foot in the middle of Colorado Territory. It wasn't a good fix to be in, and the possessions he stood staring at were not much to show for six years of working for various cattle ranches.

Since the age of fourteen, Cade Hunter had done a man's work. He found at an even earlier age that he had a gift for working with horses. It was a gift that stood him well with the ranchers he worked for. The only horse he'd actually owned was Billy, but he had his mind set on raising horses for himself. Deciding the time had come, he had started out for Montana Territory determined to make it one way or another. Intrigued by reports that there were bands of wild horses roaming the Montana plains, he wanted to see for himself if the tales were true.

The decisions to be made at this unforeseen moment, however, were more basic in nature, as they applied to his survival. He hadn't figured on Billy stepping in a prairie dog hole. A man on foot was no man at all in this wild country. He took a long hard look at his possessions before deciding just how much he could carry. As close as he could estimate, he should be no farther than eight or ten miles from the town of Pueblo. Although reluctant to leave anything behind, he knew he couldn't carry everything on his back for that distance, so he looked around for a place to hide his saddle and tack. Seeing a sharp rock protruding from the mouth of a narrow gully, he decided he could find that again easily enough. After making sure his gear couldn't be easily seen by any chance passerby, he drew his rifle from the saddle scabbard, slung his canteen over his shoulder, and set out along the trail to Pueblo.

After walking little more than a mile, he came upon a tiny stream. It was a welcome sight because there wasn't much water left in his canteen when he started his walk. The water looked clear enough, so he lay on his belly and sucked up a few mouthfuls to quench his thirst. Sitting back on his heels, he looked back the way he had come. At once, he spotted what looked to be a wagon approaching in the distance. With a renewed sense of optimism, he got to his feet and stared at the slowly moving object. As it closed the distance between them, he realized that it was a chuck wagon, which seemed odd since he had seen no sign of a herd of cattle.
Maybe it's a peddler or something,
he thought,
and just looks like a chuck wagon.

As it drew near, however, he could see that it was, indeed, a chuck wagon. He stood waiting while the driver, a full-whiskered little man wearing a battered old hat with the front brim flattened back against the crown, pulled the wagon up to a stop before him.

“I seen your horse back yonder a piece,” the driver said. “Figured I'd run across you sooner or later.”

“Yep,” Cade said, “I had to shoot him. He broke his leg in a prairie dog hole.”

“I seen that right off.” He looked Cade over for a moment or two. “I don't see no saddle or nothin'.”

“I hid it back yonder near my horse.”

The wagon driver studied the young man on foot for another long moment, making a judgment. “I can take you into Pueblo. Climb on and we'll go back and get your saddle.”

“Much obliged,” Cade said.

He waited while Cade climbed up beside him on the seat. “Warm day for walkin',” he commented. “My name's Stump Johnson.” He offered his hand, and Cade shook it.

“Cade Hunter,” he replied.

“You from around these parts?” Stump asked. “You headed for Pueblo?”

“I used to live near here. I'm just passin' through now,” Cade said. “I was thinkin' about makin' my way up to Montana Territory, but I reckon I'm gonna have to find myself a horse now—maybe have to find a job to make enough money to buy one.”

“That horse you were ridin' looked pretty long in the tooth to me. If he hadn'ta stepped in that prairie dog hole, he mighta died of old age before long.”

“I reckon,” Cade replied.

Stump spat a long stream of tobacco juice over the side of the wagon and wiped his whiskers with his sleeve. Then, taking an intense look at the young man beside him, he asked, “What kinda work are you lookin' for?”

“Well, I don't know anything but horses and cows. That's all I've ever done for the last six years. I worked the past couple of years for Mr. Henry Travis down in Texas.”

“Henry Travis—is that a fact?”

“Yep. Do you know Mr. Travis?”

“No. I know of him,” Stump replied. “He runs a big outfit.” He took another look at Cade. “Six years, you say. You musta went to work right offa your ma's teat.”

Cade smiled. It was the sort of remark he had grown accustomed to. “I'm older than I look,” he said.

For about a mile or so after picking up Cade's possessions from the gully, they talked on, Stump doing most of it, generally in the form of questions about herding cattle. Cade's answers satisfied Stump that the young man seemed to know enough to talk a good game. “You say you was headin' out to Montana?” he suddenly asked. When Cade said that he was, Stump said, “Back there about four or five miles, on the other side of that line of hills, there's a herd of about eleven hundred longhorns, and they're headed for Milestown, Montana Territory. The obvious spark in the young man's eyes told Stump that Cade's attention was captured by his statement. “John Becker's the owner,” Stump went on. “If you wanna take a chance on it, I could take you back with me, and maybe Mr. Becker will take you on. That would fit right in with you wantin' to get to Montana, wouldn't it?”

“It sure would,” Cade replied.

“Course, if Mr. Becker don't offer you a job, then you're back out in the hills on foot again.”

“I'll chance it,” Cade quickly replied. It was a timely opportunity, and he was confident in his ability to sell himself to the owner.

“Good,” Stump said. “We'll just ride on into town and I'll pick up some supplies. Then we'll ride on back to meet the herd.”

 

John Becker was a big heavyset German with a barrel-like torso that was supported by two skinny legs. He reminded Cade of a great blackbird. With a skeptical eye, he eyed the young self-proclaimed cowhand who rode into his camp on the chuck wagon. “Stump tells me you're lookin' for a job,” he said. When Cade replied that he was indeed hoping to join up, Becker simply nodded his head while he thought about it. Finally, after Cade felt he had been scrutinized from head to toe, Becker continued. “I need good men, men who know cattle, and you look a little young to have had much experience.”

“I'm twenty years old,” Cade responded, “and I ain't ever had a cow or a horse ask me my age.”

“Is that so?” Becker grunted, and winked at Stump. “Well, I'll tell you what. Why don't you get your rope and cut out one of those horses in the remuda and throw your saddle on him. That red roan on the outside oughta be easy to rope.”

Becker and Stump stood by the chuck wagon and watched Cade go about the task he had been given. “He ain't wastin' no time, is he?” Stump remarked as Cade shook out his rope and approached the roan. He stood there for only a moment before moving on past the horse in favor of a sorrel with white stockings.

“Uh-oh,” Stump grunted. “That's a mistake.”

The sorrel stood nervously watching the man walking slowly toward it, the rope hanging limp in his hands. It permitted Cade to approach to within ten feet before suddenly turning away, preparing to bolt. Cade's reactions were like lightning. In less than a couple seconds, he twirled his rope once over his head and threw it, catching the sorrel around the neck.

“Hot damn!” Stump exclaimed. “He's goin' for a ride now.”

Much to his and Becker's surprise, however, the sorrel did not bolt and drag Cade across the valley as they had expected. Instead, the horse seemed hesitant as Cade hand-walked up the rope until he was close enough to stroke the sorrel's face and neck.

“Damn,” Stump said, “what's got into that horse?”

Becker was impressed. “I believe that boy wasn't just braggin' when he said he was good with horses.”

“I seen it right off,” Stump said, and spat.

Becker stroked his chin thoughtfully while he watched Cade lead the horse back to the chuck wagon where he slipped a bridle on it, and then threw on his saddle. Becker had already seen enough to hire him, even before he gave him another test to demonstrate his ability. When Cade led the saddled horse over to him, Becker asked, “Why didn't you throw a rope on that roan?”

“He was tired,” Cade answered. “That horse had already been worked hard today, so I picked this one instead since I didn't know what you wanted me to do with him.” He put a foot in the stirrup and climbed in the saddle. Reaching down to stroke the sorrel's neck, he asked, “What's his name?”

“Red Pepper,” Becker answered, still astonished by the horse's sudden transformation.

“Well, whaddaya want me and Red to do?”

Becker looked at Stump and grinned, shaking his head. Looking back at the young man astride the horse, he shrugged and said, “Oh, I don't know. Let me see you cut out four or five head of them cows over there and circle 'em back this way.”

In a matter of minutes, Cade drove five longhorns past the wagon, calling out as he rode by, “Whaddaya want me to do with 'em?”

“Nothin',” Becker called back. “Let 'em go. You're hired. We'll be startin' out to Montana in the mornin'.”

 

Most of Becker's crew accepted the new hire with a simple nod and without many questions beyond where he had worked before, and where he hailed from. As with most drovers, they reserved their opinion of a man until he had ridden with the drive a few days. Of course, there was one exception to that general air of indifference. His name was Brady Waits, a big fellow, thick through the chest, with arms like hams. Every drive had its troublemaker. Brady played that role in Becker's outfit. It was inevitable that he would deem it amusing to test the new hand, especially one as young as Cade seemed to be.

Off to himself, apart from the circle of cowhands, Cade sat eating his supper of beef, beans, and coffee, content to have found the opportunity to work his way to Montana Territory. Concentrating on the plate of food, he suddenly sensed someone standing over him. Glancing up, he was confronted by the imposing bulk of Brady Waits, and he knew without being told that he was looking at the resident bully.

With a grin that was closely related to a sneer, the big man announced, “I'm Brady Waits. I'm the man that'll break your back for you if you get on the wrong side of me.”

“That a fact?” Cade answered, unimpressed. “Cade Hunter.” He stared at the beefy hand extended toward him for a long second before taking it.

His grin growing wider by the second, Brady clamped down hard on Cade's hand until Cade felt the bones rubbing together. “Cade Hunter, huh?” Brady snorted. “I think I'll call you Tater, 'cause you look like a tater to me. Whaddaya think of that?”