The Last Trail Drive (12 page)

They tied Dawkins up for the night, took turns on watch. Ryan was feeling a bit better with some food and water in him. Clint took the second watch so he could let Ryan sleep a little longer. By the time he was ready to wake him he had anther pot of coffee going.

“Drink it quick,” he said. “We've got to get moving.”

Clint walked over and prodded Dawkins awake. The man hadn't really told them much. They tried to find out why Jones was waiting, why he didn't just attack now and stampede the herd, but Dawkins told him he honestly didn't know.

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Adams,” Dawkins said, “we was all wonderin' the same thing.”

Well, Clint got the answer to one question. If Jones was making all the decisions, it probably meant that Morgan wasn't with them. He had either stayed behind, or gone on ahead. If he was intent on making sure the herd never got to Fort Laramie he was either there, or waiting at Ogallala.

Dawkins watched as Clint and Ryan broke camp, his hands and feet still tied. Soon it looked as though they weren't going to untie him. When they saddled Dawkins' horse and Ryan mounted up, the man knew.

“Hey! Ya can't just leave me here tied up!” he shouted.

“We aren't going to leave you tied,” Clint said. “But we are going to leave you. We've got no choice. We've got to catch up to the herd.”

“I'll die out here.”

“I'll leave you one canteen,” Clint said. “There's a waterhole about two miles back. We filled up there yesterday.”

“And after that?”

“After that it's anybody's guess,” Clint said. “I guess it'll depend on how bad you want to live.”

Clint knelt down, cut the ropes on Dawkins's wrists and ankles.

“Damn, I can't feel my legs,” Dawkins complained.

“Rub them,” Clint said, mounting up. “They'll be fine in a while.”

“Come on, Adams,” Dawkins cried out. “Ya can't leave me like this.”

“If you make it, Dawkins,” Clint said, “think twice before you hook up with somebody.”

As Clint and Ryan rode away they could still hear Dawkins shouting at them and, eventually, cursing them out.

 

Clint knew if he pushed Eclipse he could catch up to the herd before dark. However, the horse Ryan was riding would never have been able to keep up with the Darley Arabian. They were going to have to ride at the slower horse's pace. That meant they probably wouldn't catch up to the herd until the next day. By that time Flood would assume they were both dead.

They still had not tried to remove Ryan's boot. Once they caught up to the others they'd have to cut it off. Clint was starting to think they should have taken Dawkins boots, because Ryan was going to need a pair, but that would certainly have sentenced the man to death.

Clint considered riding up behind Santiago Jones and his men to have a look, but if they were spotted and got into a gun battle he wasn't sure how much help Ryan would take, and he didn't like the idea of six-to-one odds. So he decided to stay clear of them and ride wide around the trail left by the herd.

 

As it started to get dark Clint reined in and looked around.

“We better camp.”

“I can keep ridin',” Ryan insisted.

“Maybe you can, but your horse can't,” Clint said. “I'm not looking to ride the animal into the ground.”

Clint got Ryan off the horse and seated, then went about setting up camp. They had Dawkins' coffee and coffeepot and the last of the man's beef jerky.

“But we could've caught up to the herd tonight,” Ryan argued.

“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” Clint said. “In fact, we might be able to catch up to them right around Dodge City.”

“Maybe we can go into Dodge,” Ryan said, his eyes brightening.

“I know what you're thinking,” Clint said, “whiskey or a woman, but I'm thinking a doctor and a new pair of boots.”

“Whatever,” Chip Ryan said. “I'm thinkin' a cold beer.”

“To tell the truth,” Clint said, “so am I.”

When Sterling returned with news that there was no sign that Clint Adams had gone on ahead of the herd, Jones assumed that Dawkins had found Adams and paid the price.

“What about Dawkins?” Sterling asked.

“Not back,” Jones said.

“I can go look for him.”

“Forget it,” Jones said. “He probably found Adams, braced him, and paid the price.”

“Why would Adams be goin' back?” Sterling asked.

“Don't know,” Jones said, “but he won't be gone long. He ain't about to leave this herd.”

“Why not?”

“Because he's not the kind of man who starts something and doesn't finish it.”

“How do you know that about him?”

Jones gave Sterling a cold stare that sent a chill down the man's back.

“Because that is how I am.”

 

Flood accepted a plate of food from Spud and then sat down to eat it alone. He assumed that Chip Ryan was dead, but he couldn't assume that about Clint. Something else must have happened to keep Clint from returning.

Someone approached, and when Flood looked up he saw Bud Coleman, plate and cup in hand.

“Hey, Boss.”

“Hey, Bud,” Flood said. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.”

Coleman sat down, set his cup on the ground and started eating from his plate. He held his fork with his thumb on top and shoveled the food in.

“Thinkin' about Adams?” Coleman asked.

“Yep.”

“Think he's dead?”

“No, I don't.”

“Why not?”

“Because he's the Gunsmith, Bud,” Flood said. “He'll be back.”

“Well,” Coleman said, around a mouthful of food, “if he don't make it back, I just want ya to know I'm ready.”

“Ready?”

“To be segundo,” Coleman said. “You're gonna need somebody to replace him, and the rest of these jaspers is either too young or too inexperienced.”

“Well, you got a point there.”

“I, uh, guess you noticed I ain't as good as I used ta be on a horse . . .”

“Really?” Flood asked. “No, I didn't notice.”

“Well, it's true,” Coleman said. “But I could sure do the job as segundo, Boss.”

“Well,” Flood said, “if Clint doesn't come back, I'll keep that in mind, Bud. Thanks.”

“Sure, Boss,” Coleman said.

He picked up his cup and went back to sit with the men and finish his meal.

“More coffee, Boss?” Spud asked, wielding the huge black coffee pot in both hands.

“Yeah, Spud, thanks,” Flood said, holding out his cup.

“How about seconds on the stew?”

“Yeah, why not?”

He gave Spud his plate, and the cook returned with it filled.

“You really think Clint's not dead, Boss?” he asked.

“That's what I think, Spud,” Flood said. “He's hard to kill.”

“So whataya think happened?”

“He probably ran into some trouble,” Flood said, “got a little farther behind then he thought. It'll just take him a bit longer to get back, that's all.”

“I hope you're right, Boss.”

As Spud walked away, Flood said to himself, “So do I.”

 

Once again Clint took the first watch, determined to let Ryan rest as much as possible. He'd decided to push tomorrow so that they'd reach the herd before sundown. He wanted both horse and rider to have as much time as possible to regain their strength.

He was sorry to have left Dawkins on foot, but the man was healthy and he had every chance of walking to safety, as long as he didn't panic.

He decided that the most likely scenario in the minds of both Santiago Jones and his boss, Larry Morgan, was to stop the herd before they got to Ogallala, in Nebraska. That gave him and Flood some time to discuss their options. He didn't know how good Flood's hands were with a gun, but they could always turn and face Jones and his men. They had them outnumbered, but Jones and his men were gunhands. Experience was more important than numbers, unless you were talking about a huge difference. In this case they'd have Jones and his men outnumbered by two to one, but that would not make up for the fact that they'd be drovers against gunhands.

Of course, whatever he decided, Flood would have to agree. It was, after all, the man's last trail drive.

Clint and Ryan started out early that morning, with intentions of catching the herd by nightfall. However, halfway through the day the pinto took a stumbling step and Ryan reined him in.

“He's gettin' tired,” he said.

“I can see that. How about you?”

“Well . . . yeah, I'm gettin' tired, too. Maybe you should go on ahead.”

“Chip, if I come back without you, then I might as well have not come at all.”

“I guess.”

“We'll slow down,” Clint said, “and go back to the original plan.”

They had discussed so many plans that Ryan was confused.

“Which plan was that?”

“We'll catch up to them tomorrow.”

They continued on at a more sensible pace. Clint could feel the power of the Darley Arabian between his legs. The animal wanted to go!

“Maybe,” Ryan said, “if we went in a straighter line we'd catch them faster.”

“If we go in a straight line we'll run right into Jones and his gang.”

“Who is this fella Jones?”

“Santiago Jones is a gunman, and the men with him are gunmen. That's why we don't want to run into them.”

“I can handle a gun, Clint,” Ryan said.

“I don't know that, Chip,” Clint said, “and I'm not going against six experienced guns if I don't know that I can count on the man with me.”

“I get it,” Ryan said. “I understand. It'd probably be better if I could stand, right.”

“I don't care if you can stand,” Clint said. “I just have to be sure you can shoot.”

“I can shoot better than any of the other guys—except maybe the old man.”

“Flood?”

“No, not Flood,” Ryan said. “Coleman.”

“Bud Coleman?”

Ryan nodded.

“The man can shoot.”

“How well?”

“He can hit anything he shoots at,” Ryan said, no matter what size. A bottle, or a two-bit piece.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn't know that.” Clint decided he better have a talk with Flood, and with Coleman, when they got back.

“What do you figure's goin' on?” Ryan asked.

“You don't know?”

“I figure Flood knows, and you know,” Ryan said. “He don't confide in a bunch of drovers.”

“Somebody's trying to keep him from finishing this drive.”

“Why?”

Clint shrugged.

“Apparently somebody's jealous,” Clint said. “Somebody else wants to have the last drive.”

“This Jones?”

“The man he works for.”

“Morgan?”

“Larry Morgan,” Clint said. “Looks like he and Flood aren't exactly friends.”

“I think Flood shoulda let on if there was gonna be trouble.”

“You're probably right about that,” Clint said, “but I think if he knew he would have hired some guns.”

“He hired you.”

“I'm not hired help, I'm doing this to help him out,” Clint said. “And I'm not a hired gun.”

“So you actually are working as his segundo?”

“That's right.”

“But you'll use your gun if you have to, right?” Ryan asked.

“That's right.”

“Then why don't you take out this Jones fella?” Ryan asked.

“He's got five other guns backing him.”

“Use Coleman to back you.”

“That's something I'm going to talk to Flood and Coleman about when we get back.”

“Well,” Ryan said, “if I can walk, I'll back your play.”

“I appreciate it, Chip,” Clint said. “I'll keep it in mind.”

“Let's pick up the pace a bit,” Ryan said. “He feels good underneath me, again.”

“You sure?”

“Sure,” Ryan said. “I know horses.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “Let's pick it up.”

Flood stared at the barbed wire that was, in effect, keeping him, his men, and his herd away from Dodge City.

“Boss?”

Flood turned and looked at Bud Coleman, who was sitting beside him on his horse.

“Why don't we just cut it down?”

“Because it's against the law, Bud,” Flood said.

“But it's keepin' us from Dodge City.”

“We're not goin' to Dodge City,” Flood said, “but it is keepin' us from passin' near Dodge City.”

“And it's keepin' us from goin' in a straight line,” Daltry said. “What do we do?”

“The rest of you stay here,” Flood said. “I'll try to reason with whoever put this wire up and see if they'll let us pass.”

“This all used to be free range,” Coleman said, shaking his head. “Now it's wired off. It ain't right.”

“It may not be right,” Flood said, “but it's progress.”

 

Flood followed the barbed wire until he came to a gate. He was able to open it and close it without dismounting. He found himself on a road and followed it to a ranch house. It wasn't very large, but impressive enough. Built from local timber, two stories high, smoke coming from a stone chimney, and men with guns standing in front of it.