The Last Trail Drive (14 page)

So unless Bud Coleman was the one committing sabotage, Clint's money was on Andy Dirker.

 

A week out of Ogallala, Clint brought the subject up to Flood as they ate.

“Dirker?”

“Did you know him before you hired him?”

“No,” Flood said, “he's one of the men I hired toward the end, to fill out my crew.”

“I'd like to find out some things about him,” Clint said.

“Why don't you ask him?”

“I don't want him to know I suspect him.”

“You got any idea who else you could ask?” Flood asked.

“I think I do.”

“Who.”

“Fella named Roy Sobel.”

“Sobel,” Flood said. “I've used him before.”

“Somebody told me he was easily led.”

Flood frowned, gave it some thought.

“I'd have to say that's true,” he said, finally. “Seems to me whenever he gets in trouble it's because he was followin' somebody else. You think he's followin' Dirker? Helpin' him with the sabotage?”

“Maybe without knowing it,” Clint said. “I guess I'll have to have a talk with him to find out.”

“Let me know what happens,” Flood said.

“I've got something else to talk to you about,” Clint said.

“What's that?”

“Bud Coleman.”

“You think Bud's involved?” Flood asked. “I don't believe that.”

“No, I don't think he's involved, but somebody told me Bud can handle a gun.”

“Was it me?”

“Somebody told me he can handle a gun real well.”

Flood ducked his head, as if caught in a lie.

“Well, I didn't tell you that,” he said, scratching his nose, “but it's true, Bud has a past he don't like to talk about.”

“You think he'd back my play if I needed somebody?” Clint asked.

“Hell, I'll back your play,” Flood said. “So will almost every man here.”

“I need a man who can really use a gun,” Clint said. “A man who's killed before. What about his past?”

“You'll have to ask him about it,” Flood said. “It ain't for me to say.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “I can respect that. I'll talk to him about it.”

“Good. I been thinkin' that even with the trouble we've had, this trip has been too good to be true.”

“I think you're right, Hank,” Clint said. “I think the worst trouble is still ahead of us, but let's see what we can do to head it off.”

“I'm with you, Clint,” Flood said. “Also, you've done a helluva job as my segundo. Just wanted you to know that.”

“I appreciate it, Hank,” Clint said. “I'm glad I could do a good job for you.”

“Do you want to talk to Bud tonight?”

“I think I'd better,” Clint said. “If Jones and his men don't try to spook the herd, it may come down to gunplay. I'll need to know who I can count on besides me and you.”

“Okay,” Flood said. “I'll send 'im over to talk to you.”

“Thanks, Hank.”

“Boss says you wanna see me?” Coleman asked.

“Have a seat, Bud,” Clint said. He'd finished his meal and was drinking another cup of coffee. “Coffee?”

“Sure.”

Spud came over and poured it for Coleman.

“We're heading for trouble, Bud, probably within the next week.”

“I thought we were waitin' for trouble to come up behind us?”

“We were, for a long time,” Clint said, “but now I'm thinking it's ahead of us.”

“Whataya need me to do?” Coleman asked.

“I hear you're pretty good with a gun,” Clint said.

Coleman frowned.

“Who told you that?”

“I just heard it.”

Coleman shook his head.

“Somebody told you wrong.”

“That so?”

“Yup.”

“So you can't handle a gun?”

“As good as anybody here, I guess, 'cept you,” Coleman said.

“That's too bad,” Clint said, “because I think we're going to be going up against some shooters, and I'm going to need help.”

Coleman didn't reply.

“Flood's going to be in trouble, too.”

“Why's that?”

“He's going to stand with me,” Clint said. “And if we have nobody else—”

“Stop.”

Clint kept silent and watched the man. Coleman was working on something inside of him, trying to come to a decision.

“Okay,” he said, finally.

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I can shoot.”

“When you say you can shoot . . .”

“I'm sayin',” Coleman replied, “that there was a time in my life when I was you, Clint Adams.”

Clint was taken aback by that statement.

“What are you saying?”

“Oh, I don't mean I was anywhere near as famous as you,” Coleman said, “but when I was in my late twenties I was feelin' my oats. I could outdraw any man alive—or so I thought. I could pretty much hit anythin' I shot at.”

“So what happened?”

“I stopped,” Coleman said. “I saw where I was headed, and I stopped. Started working cattle, kept my gun in the holster as much as I could.”

Coleman had been looking into his coffee cup while he spoke. Now he looked up and locked eyes with Clint.

“I could have easily led the life you've led, although probably not as well,” Coleman said. “I probably would've been dead by now—maybe even killed by you, at some point. Or, in any case, a better man.”

“There's always a better man.”

“You know that?”

“Of course I do,” Clint said. “I hoping never to meet him, but I'm sure he's out there. . . somewhere.”

The two men sat in silence for a few moments.

“So you've killed before, when you had to?”

“For a while I killed just because I could,” he said, “but over the past twenty years or so—yeah, when I had to.”

“So you can still use your gun?”

“That doesn't go away, Clint,” Coleman said. “You know that.”

Clint looked at Coleman's gun. He hadn't noticed before how well cared for it was. The man kept his weapon ready.

“Yeah, I know that.”

“So what are we gonna do?”

“As we approach Ogallala I think you, me, and Flood should ride ahead.”

“So you think they'll wait for us?” Coleman asked. “They won't circle back around us and stampede the herd?”

“They could have stampeded the herd at any time,” Clint said. “I think Santiago Jones wants to face me, not trample me to death.”

“I haven't heard of him before.”

“Neither have I,” Clint said. “Maybe he wants to change that.”

“How many men has he got?”

“He had six, now he has five with him.”

“So two-to-one odds,” Coleman said. “I've seen worse.”

“So have I.”

“Maybe we can leave Flood behind,” Coleman said. “Maybe you and me can handle it.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah.”

“You're not just trying to keep him safe?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“We probably should let Flood make that decision himself.”

“Yeah, okay,” Coleman said, standing up. “I'll keep working the herd until you need me. Unless there's somethin' else?”

“There is one thing.”

“What's that?”

“How much do you know about Andy Dirker?”

“Not much, but I don't like 'im.”

“Why not?”

“Keeps to himself,” Coleman said. “Can't trust a man who does that.”

“He's got no friends on the crew?”

“No,” Coleman said. “The only one he talks to is Sobel, but they ain't friends.”

“What about Sobel?”

“What about him? He ain't got a mind of his own, has to be told what to do.”

“And has Dirker been doing the tellin'?”

“What are you gettin' at?”

“Back in Doan's Crossing Jack Trevor was killed with a knife. One like Andy Dirker's got.”

“He's always playin' with that knife. You think that sonofabitch killed Jack?”

“Maybe. I want you to do something for me. Get a look at the bottom of his boots.”

“What am I looking for?”

“A shape,” Clint said, and explained what he had seen in a boot print in the livery where Trevor had been killed. “You see it, let me know.”

“Okay,” Coleman said. “I'll let you know.”

Coleman walked away, his crooked gate betraying the problem with his bad hip.

Lawrence Morgan—who preferred to be called Larry by everyone, not just his friends—smoked a cigar while he watched the whore undress. He had chosen very carefully, sure to end up with the best-looking woman in the house. She was dark-haired, tall and slender, with very long legs and breasts like ripe peaches.

Morgan had been in Ogallala years ago when it was a town that lived off the cattle drives. Now—like Doan's Crossing, Dodge, and many others—it lived off crumbs.

That's what Henry Flood was trying to bring to Ogallala, the crumbs of his last cattle drive. Morgan hated Flood, always had. He'd spend his last dime if he had to, to make sure Henry Flood failed.

The whore dropped her see-through black-lace robe to the floor and stood before Morgan naked, still wearing her high heel shoes. Her skin was very pale, her nipples very dark brown, her breasts high and firm. He put his cigarette out and held his arms out to her. She came to him, crouched down in front of him, between his legs. He was naked, his erection standing out from an almost obscenely hairy crotch. None of the girls wanted to go with him because he was an ugly man—big, blocky, with abnormally large facial features.

This whore—Gloria—had gone with him because she was curious. His ears, nose, lips, and hands were so large she wondered what else he had that was large. Gloria loved a man with a large penis, and Larry Morgan's stood out like a miniature redwood.

“My God,” she said, taking his huge cock in her hands.

“You like that, huh?” he asked.

Morgan knew he was an ugly man, but had been with his fair share of women and knew that what he had appealed to some. Some had been scared off by his features, and still others who had gotten as far as this—naked in a room with him—and then been frightened off.

But not this whore. Her eyes were shining as she stroked him, making him even larger.

“If we're not careful,” she said, “you're gonna tear me up, leave me limping for days.”

“Well, honey,” he said, “we'll just have to be careful, won't we?”

Morgan didn't want to cause any trouble in town. He just wanted to be there when Santiago Jones came and told him that Henry Flood had failed. He was just killing time with this whore, so he was in no hurry. Let her spend as much time as she wanted ooh and ahhing over his cock.

“Well,” she said, licking her lips, “let's see if I can get this monster into my mouth, and we'll just go from there.”

“That's fine with me—” he said, but she cut him off by—amazingly—swooping in, opening her mouth, and taking him inside.

 

Santiago Jones liked this better.

Let Adams and Flood bring the herd to him. What was the point of stampeding the steers when they could keep them altogether and then take the herd for themselves after they killed Flood and Clint Adams?

The other men were milling about camp, looking for some way to while away the time. None of them had the big half-breed's patience.

“Sterling,” Jones called.

Finally, Sterling thought, Something to do.

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Ride back, see what you can see.”

“Sure, Boss.”

“If you spot them don't do a thing. Just come back and tell me. Understand?”

“Sure, Boss, I understand,” Sterling said, “but once we spot them, what're we gonna do?”

“We'll ride out and give them a welcome,” Jones said. “One they won't forget.”

Days later Clint and Flood were riding together in advance of the herd.

“Well now,” Flood said. “This looks familiar.”

“It does?” Clint asked. “Can you tell how far out of Ogallala we are?”

“ 'Bout three days,” Flood said.

They had been on the trail a little over two months. Once they reached Ogallala they'd still have about two weeks to go before they reached Fort Laramie.

“Might be time for us to ride up ahead,” Clint said. “You, me, and Bud.”

“Okay.”

“But if we do that,” Clint said, “who are we going to leave in charge of the herd?”

Flood frowned.

“Can't think of anybody I'd trust,” he admitted.

“I can't either, Hank,” Clint said. “Maybe you should stay, let me and Bud go ahead.”

“And fight my fight?”

“I think the herd might be more important than your fight,” Clint said. “Bud's going to back my play—”

“You never let anybody back you if you haven't seen them in action before,” Flood said. “I'm the only one that qualifies.”

“That's true,” Clint said, “but this is different. Somebody's got to stay with the herd, and the men, unless . . .”