This Calder Range (19 page)

Her mount was a buttermilk-colored buckskin. By nature, it was a calm, steady animal, but with plenty of life. There was nothing plodding or sedate about its way of going. He seemed more surprised than uneasy with the unusual saddle on his back and the many layers of skirt and petticoats constantly brushing his side, but he settled down to it quickly. Lorna named him Sandman because of his color and his gentlemanly ways.

As she cantered the buckskin alongside Benteen's mount, the prairie gave way to rough, broken country that marked the Red River Valley and the Texas boundary. Lorna was awed by the wild land. There was certainly nothing like it around Fort Worth, but she'd never ventured more than a day's drive from there in her life until now.

When they reached the Red River, its sluggish water was thick with the clay-red silt that gave it its name. Stopping on a knoll overlooking the river, Benteen studied the river like a general looking over a battlefield before the battle starts.

“Is something wrong?” Lorna asked.

She wasn't aware how treacherous river crossings could be to cattle and men. So far, they had forded only
tame streams that had offered them no trouble. Benteen didn't enlighten her about the difference.

“No.” His gaze traveled beyond the river to the land on the opposite side. “Once we cross that, Texas will be behind us.”

The satisfaction in his voice sobered Lorna, because she didn't share his desire to cut all ties with this country. There were many things she didn't allow her mind to dwell on; missing her parents was one of them. She had tried so hard to get through each day without complaining, to show Benteen that she was game enough to take it. She kept telling herself that everything would be all right when they finally reached Montana and they had a real home instead of a covered wagon. But would it?

“Wait here,” Benteen ordered. “I'm going to ride down for a closer look.”

Checking the buckskin's attempt to follow, Lorna watched Benteen ride down to the fording place. It seemed he was always thinking about the cattle and the trail ahead. There was hardly room for anything else. Even when he took her along, like this afternoon, it seemed to be a token gesture—just like when she was a little girl and her father used to let her come to his store as long as she promised to sit and be very quiet and not make a nuisance of herself. The only time she had Benteen's undivided attention was at night—and that hadn't been very often lately. In irritation, Lorna realized he was saving his strength and energy for the trail drive.

Benteen had swum his horse to the other side and was on his way back when she heard the sound of a horse and rider approaching the river. Lorna turned, not recognizing the burly man on the sorrel horse. It wasn't anyone from their outfit. Lorna was more curious than alarmed by the sight of the stranger riding up to her. He was only one man, and Benteen was within shouting distance.

When he stopped his horse a few yards from her, he
swept off his hat in a gallant gesture of respect and held it to his chest. He seemed to be all chest, shoulders, and neck. Lorna inclined her head in a silent acknowledgment of his action.

“Good day to you, Mrs. Calder,” the stranger said, taking her by surprise when he used her name. There was a boldness about him as he smiled. “We've never met, but you've been described to me, so I recognized you right off.”

“You have the advantage, sir,” she murmured.

“My name's Giles. My friends call me Bull,” he introduced himself. “I'm bossin' a herd a few miles back down the trail.”

“I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Giles.” Lorna had heard the men talking about one herd following them, although there were many ahead and behind. “Would you be driving Mr. Boston's cattle?”

“That's right enough, ma'am.” He was blatantly admiring. “You not only sit a horse pretty, but you got a bright mind, too.”

No one—not even Benteen—had complimented Lorna for her intelligence and ability to think. Ever since her marriage, she'd felt incredibly ignorant and naïve. But this man had just made her feel clever and smart. It did wonderful things for her self-esteem.

“You're very kind, Mr. Giles.” She was glowing.

“How can a man be anything else in the company of a beautiful lady?” His gallant flattery seemed such a contradiction to his muscled, pugnacious appearance. Perhaps that's what made it seem so sincere, Lorna thought.

Cantering hooves signaled Benteen's approach. The man named Bull Giles gave a considering look in her husband's direction and shoved his hat back onto his head. The smile went from his face as it took on that closed-in expression Lorna had noticed men wear when they met each other. When Benteen halted his horse, it was positioned between Lorna and the Ten Bar trail boss.

“Giles.” Benteen greeted the man with a nod of his head.

“How's the river?”

“A little soft on the other bank, but otherwise it's in good shape.” River water dripped from Benteen, and his horse was shiny wet with it.

“When're you figurin' to cross?” the big man asked.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Don't be all day at it,” Giles said. “Else I'll have to push you aside to take my cows across.”

“I don't push too easy,” Benteen replied. On the surface, the exchange seemed to be an idle one, holding no heat, yet Lorna sensed some undercurrent running between them.

“That's the way I always had it figured,” the big man agreed. “'Course I had thought Boston would get some opposition over the Cee Bar.”

“It wasn't my play, and Pa had already cashed in his chips before Boston picked up his winnings,” he stated.

“Yeah, I heard you was headed for Montana Territory.” Giles nodded. “Reckon I might take another look at that country after I deliver these cows in Dodge City.” But he was looking straight at Lorna when he said it, leaving the impression that she was what he'd be going to see.

Lorna blushed a little, feeling the sharpness of Benteen's gaze upon her. She felt the fluttering of her pulse and didn't know which man to blame for it. When Giles glanced at Benteen, there was something in his eyes that dared Benteen to object.

“Have you met my wife?” Again there was emphasis on the possessive word.

“Yes, I introduced myself when I rode up,” he admitted. “I hope you're taking good care of her, 'cause there's bound to be somebody else around willin' to do the job.”

“Namely you?” Benteen challenged in a cool, smooth voice.

“An ugly brute like me?” Giles laughed.

Lorna failed to notice that he didn't deny it, although Benteen did. “I'm sure you underrate your own worth, Mr. Giles,” she insisted. It reminded her too much of the way Sue Ellen was always putting herself down because of her plain looks.

“Now you are being kind, Mrs. Calder.” Such flawless manners seemed so incongruous coming from such a rough-looking man. His attention swung back to Benteen. “I think I'll take a look-see at the river myself.” He backed his sorrel horse up a few feet, then reined it toward the river ford.

When the Ten Bar trail boss was out of hearing, Benteen demanded, “What did you say to him before I came?”

“Practically nothing. Why?” Lorna frowned.

“You must have said or done something. A man doesn't look at a married woman the way Giles looked at you unless he's been given a reason to think his interest was welcome.” His gaze was narrow, punching holes in her newly found self-esteem. “You were looking quite pleased about something when I rode up.”

“He had paid me a compliment—something I rarely hear anymore,” she retorted a little snappishly.

“In case you haven't noticed, I have been busy lately.” He matched her testiness.

“Why? Because you've been bossing this drive?” Lorna gave him a cool look. “Mr. Giles has been busy bossing a drive, too, but that didn't keep him from saying something nice to me.”

“It's probably been three weeks since he's seen a woman.”

“And I suppose it makes a difference because you've seen me every day and he hasn't,” she challenged. “Or maybe Mr. Giles knows how to make a woman feel good about herself and you only know how to make her feel foolish and ignorant.”

Lorna slapped the buckskin with the reins and sent it galloping back over the route they had traveled to the
river. She knew Benteen was angry, but so was she. She hadn't encouraged Bull Giles and she resented the implication that she had.

That night, Benteen assigned himself to the second shift of night herd and spread out a bedroll on the ground outside the wagon so he could be easily wakened. Lorna hadn't spoken to him since they'd reached camp, and he was damned if he was going to make the first move. The next morning he blamed his irritability on the shortness of the night.

The wagons were sent ahead to cross the Red before the herd. Once the Longhorns had the morning stretch and grazed a short while, Benteen made a circling wave of his hat over his head to signal the men to move them out. The point riders picked up the motion and passed the signal down the line.

The brindle steer quickly shouldered his way to the lead. It wasn't long until the herd was nicely strung out, a multicolored ribbon of hide and horn moving along. The cattle were walking freely toward the water, at this point drifting, not driven. There had been no water at last night's bedground, and this morning they were thirsty.

When the brindle and his immediate followers waded in to drink, the drovers tightened ranks to shove the rest of the herd after them and force the lead group into the river. Jessie Trumbo on right point swam his horse in front of the brindle to show him the way to the other side.

“Come on and follow me!” Benteen heard Jessie call to the steer. “Come on, you captain of this sea of horns!”

The swimming Longhorns made a strange spectacle. The mud-red river hid their bodies under the water, leaving exposed only the heads with their sweeping rack of long horns. The cowboys pressed to keep the herd compact, not allowing a gap to appear in the flow of horns.

The first steers reached the opposite bank while the swing men, Jonesy and Andy Young, rode into the river on either side of the swimming cattle. The flank and drag riders continued to push from behind. From his vantage point on the riverbank, Benteen watched the proceedings, alert to anything that might threaten this smooth crossing. Sometimes cowboys never knew what would startle a cow—an eddy, a submerged tree branch, or the cry of a whippoorwill. Andy was letting his side of the herd drift too far downstream, where there were patches of quicksand that could swallow a horse or steer in minutes. Benteen shouted to him above the din of bawling beefs. It was acknowledged with a wave.

Something went wrong in midstream. Benteen never saw what it was. Suddenly the cattle started milling in a circle, trying to turn and swim back to the bank they'd left, but the rest of the herd was being pushed into them.

It had happened quickly—and it had to be broken up just as quickly, or the animals in the middle would be drowned in the crush of churning bodies. Jonesy had already seen it and was swimming his horse directly at the tangled mass, hitting and yelling at the excited beasts to turn them toward the north bank. Benteen spurred his horse into the river as Andy Young turned his mount toward the mill. A steer, swimming in a blind panic, rammed into Andy's horse. It floundered, unseating its rider.

“Andy's down!” Jonesy shouted.

Benteen saw the cowboy hat floating downstream, then caught a glimpse of Andy's head as he bobbed to the surface. The coil of cattle was between him and the rider. Jonesy was closer.

From the north bank, water splashed as Spanish rode his horse into the river to come to their aid, while Jessie held the part of the herd that had already made the crossing.

When Jessie threw a rope for Andy, Benteen directed
his efforts to breaking the mill. There wasn't time to think of the personal risk or danger. There was only the cattle and saving them. Spanish rode his horse close to the center and slid off to begin climbing across the backs of animals to the middle. With border curses and flailing fists, he began driving a wedge in the circle of horns. Benteen's pressure finished the job, and the steers were once again heading in the same direction toward the north bank.

Benteen's horse labored onto the bank, trembling and snorting. He was breathing hard, too, but his mind was still on the cattle and getting the rest of the herd across. Two of the flank riders accompanied the stream of horns across. As Shorty Niles rode by Benteen, his face was white and strained.

“The sonofabitches didn't make it. The stupid sonofabitches,” he cursed, but it was a pain-filled voice.

Benteen looked at the last place where he'd seen Jonesy. His riderless horse was on the south bank, shaking itself like a wet dog. There was no sign of Jonesy or Andy Young. Benteen drank in a deep breath and held it, shutting his eyes before he let it out in a long, wavering sigh.

No attempt was made to look for the bodies of the cowboys until the entire herd had made the crossing and been bunched a half-mile from the river. When they searched downstream, they found the bodies floating a mile away. In all, the mill at the river crossing had taken a heavy toll. Two riders dead and seventy head of cattle drowned.

The bodies were wrapped in tarp and carried to a bluff overlooking the river to be buried. It was a solemn service; by necessity, a brief one, too. Lorna stared at all the emotionless faces of the men standing by the graves, hats in hand. Ely Stanton had fashioned a pair of crude crosses out of tree limbs and rawhide to mark the burial sites, but no names were carved into them. Someone had plucked their hats from the river, and
they were hanging on the upright beams of the crosses. No cowboy went anywhere without his hat. He ate with it, slept with it, and died with it.

As trail boss, it was Benteen's duty to say a few words over them. “They were good men, but You know that. Give them good horses to ride and a clear sky overhead. Amen.”