Texas Fever Read online

  Chuck heard the night-guard’s familiar shout: “Roll out and ride, you loafers, they’re running!”

  He was already at his horse. As he swung into the saddle, the animal, well-trained, pivoted to go with the cattle as it had done on other nights like this—to flank them, head them, turn them, mill them—and he had to pull it down hard while he looked for the Old Man. The ground vibrated with the rumble of the stampede as the fear-crazed steers hit their stride; their long horns clashed and clattered. They were headed upriver. By the sound of them they were set to run all night, but orders were to leave them, and Chuck fought his pony around and headed for the tall figure on the black horse.

  Other McAuliffe riders were converging on the Old Man now, and he led them, first, in a direction parallel to the track of the stampede. Then, surprisingly, he turned away from the noise and confusion, swinging gradually away from the river. He brought them to a halt, finally, in a shallow depression between two low hills, black against the night sky. There were some blasphemous protests as the horsemen in the rear, not catching the signal in time, over-rode those in front. Jesse McAuliffe surveyed them from his saddle.

  “You’re a fair bunch of cowhands,” he said dryly, “but you’d make damn poor cavalry. Now check your weapons while we rest our horses and give our friends out yonder a little time to be clever.”

  Chuck pulled out his cap-and-ball Remington again. It was a present from Dave, who’d taken a matched pair from a Union officer. He checked the percussion caps, spun the cylinder, and thrust the piece back into the holster with a hand that was, for some reason, a little damp and sweaty, although the night was not warm. All around him he could hear the creak of leather and the click of steel as others made similar inspections. Over it all was a rumbling sound, like distant thunder; that was the herd, still going strong to the west. There was an occasional shot out there, no telling whose.

  Somebody said irritably, “Those cattle are going to be scattered to hell and gone, come morning.”

  The Old Man said, “Dave’s got two good hands to help him. They’ll do what they can.”

  Joe Paris, who’d ridden up the slope a ways, whistled softly to attract their attention. “Miguel’s coming, Major.”

  “About time,” the Old Man said.

  They sat in silence, waiting for the little, scarred Mexican rider to reach them. He rode up, removed his wide hat, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead before speaking. The Old Man made no move to hurry him.

  Miguel put his hat back on. “It is the same trick as before, señor,” he said. “They start the herd running, but they do not follow. Instead, they ride back to camp, to await our return. There are some, armed with rifles, concealed in the wagon—the cook I did not see, he must have found a place to hide—and the rest of those hombres are waiting in the trees along the river within easy gunshot. If anybody rides into that camp unawares, Señor McAuliffe, he will be shot to ribbons.”

  The Old Man rubbed the stump of his arm. “In the wagon, you say, Mike?”

  “Si, señor. Four or five of them.”

  “And their horses?”

  “All the horses are being held by two men, just around the bend of the river to the east.”

  “Good enough,” the Old Man said. He straightened up to regard the crew. “It’s an ambush, as you’ve heard,” he said. “They stampeded the herd to decoy us away from camp, so they could be ready and waiting when we straggled back by twos and threes.”

  Somebody asked, “Who are these fellows anyway, Major? You say they’re white men?”

  The Old Man nodded towards Miguel Apodaca. “Tell them, Mike.”

  Miguel said deliberately, “There are many bad men along these borders since the war—since before the war. Once, perhaps, they claimed to be fighting for one cause or another, but now they are all outlaws together. Many of them have joined, I think, to prey on the Texas trail herds. Bushwhackers, border ruffians, they are called. Last year I came this way with a dozen compadres and twenty-seven hundred head of cattle, property of Señor Peter Laughlin—”

  “Old Pete Laughlin!” somebody said. “He never returned to Texas, or any of the men with him!”

  “One did,” Miguel said. “I did. We crossed the Arkansas about this time of year, maybe a little later. When the herd was stampeded, like tonight, we rode with it. The first men to return to camp were taken prisoner, bound and gagged. The rest, riding in unsuspecting, were shot down in cold blood. Then the prisoners were shot, too. The bodies were thrown into the river.” The little rider touched his scarred face. “I was not dead, not quite. I managed to swim ashore. I made my way to Fort Gibson, downstream. Later, I returned to Texas. Those men were my friends. There is a debt to pay. Señor McAuliffe was the first who would listen to me, and promise me an opportunity to strike back.”

  There was a little silence, then the Old Man said, “Seems like some folks, when they get a trick that works, don’t know when to quit using it. I figure we can at least persuade these gentlemen to change their tactics for the next herd that comes along.” He cleared his throat, and spoke more briskly. “I think we should first take a little ride through camp, single file, keeping the wagon between us and the woods as much as possible. Concentrate your fire on the Yankee scum in the wagon. You won’t be able to hit anything off in the trees, from horseback, anyway. They’re not apt to hit you either, if you keep moving. But perforate that wagon thoroughly, hear? We’ll make just one run past it, Indian fashion, but you’d better shoot better than most redskins or those bushwhackers are going to cut you to pieces. Once past, we’ll swing wide, reload, and head around the bend to drive off the horses. That’ll put our friends on foot. Maybe we can do some more damage while they’re hunting themselves something to ride.” The Old Man paused. “Any questions?”

  There were no questions. Jesse McAuliffe gave a signal, and they were riding again. Chuck found that his mouth was very dry; when somebody pulled alongside, he was more startled than there was any sense in being, and angry with himself to boot.

  Joe Paris asked, “Scared, boy?”

  He shook his head quickly. “No.”

  The older man grinned in the darkness. “That makes you either a liar or a fool. Well, you’ve been complaining because the war got over before you got to shoot at a Yankee. Now you’ll have a chance to see what you missed. Just keep your interval and keep riding. Remember that not many men can hit a fast-moving target in the dark, at any distance, particularly if it’s shooting back. Don’t open fire until you know you’re in range. If your horse goes down, take cover behind it and make yourself as small as possible. Most likely somebody’ll come back for you. We can’t afford to break in another wrangler.”

  Paris gave him a whack on the shoulder and rode ahead to join the Old Man again. Chuck wondered briefly if his father had sent the foreman back to encourage him. It didn’t seem likely; the Old Man hadn’t even turned his head. Then something else drove the question from his mind. The camp was in sight ahead: the low fire and the innocent-looking, deserted wagon. Beyond was the black mass of trees, silent, waiting.

  They were in single file now, riding well strung out The Old Man led them in at an easy trot, at an angle. There was no sound or movement in the camp. They would be waiting to spring their trap, Chuck thought; they couldn’t tell, from the sound, in the darkness, how many men were riding into their guns.

  The first shot was the Old Man’s, at long pistol range, and the whole column surged ahead. Then Joe Paris was in range and firing, and still there was no answer from the wagon or the trees, and Chuck had time to think how silly they’d all feel if there should be nobody there, and they’d have shot hell out of an empty wagon —their own wagon at that. Even as the thought crossed his mind, the dirty canvas went up and a ragged sheet of flame blazed from the side of the standing vehicle.

  Yellow spurts of flame blossomed in the woods beyond. It seemed impossible that the leaders of the column could escape that concentrated fire, but
they were still riding, still shooting, and now the man ahead of Chuck was in range, and Chuck had his own gun ready as he swept in at full gallop. The big Remington pistol was bucking in his hand. . . .

  He didn’t realize, until he was out again, that he’d been yelling—they’d all been screaming like banshees— and the high rebel yell still hung in the air as the McAuliffe rider at the tail of the column threw his fire into the riddled wagon that no longer answered back. Well away from the trees, the Old Man brought them to a halt.

  “Reload!” he snapped, rising in the stirrups to look them over. “Anybody hit too bad to ride?”

  There was no answer, only the bellows-like breathing of the horses, the steady rustle of movement, and occasional metallic sounds, as fresh loads were rammed home into fouled chambers. Chuck juggled powder-flask and bullet-pouch desperately in the dark. He had time to recharge only three chambers of his weapon before they were riding again.

  He could never recall the exact details of the rest of the night, except that his gun was never again fully loaded. It seemed as if he was leaving a trail of spilled powder and percussion caps clear across Indian Territory. When they scattered the horses he was only vaguely aware of it; he knew there must have been a lot of subsequent riding and shooting; mostly he remembered the night as a frantic struggle to keep up with the rest of the crew while trying to cram fresh charges into an eternally empty weapon.

  The Old Man pulled them off at last, saying that the bushwhackers still outnumbered them two to one, and if they kept in pursuit they might well run into a trap* They rode back towards camp, reaching it just at daybreak. A dejected, muddy figure was sitting by the fire: the cook, who’d taken shelter in the river, shaking with cold. There was some laughter at this, but it died when they saw the wagon. Of the five men it had contained, not one had escaped. They lay in the splintered wagon-bed as death had found them. The ground beneath was red.

  There was a little silence, then somebody sighed, and little Miguel Apodaca brushed the scar on his face thoughtfully with his fingertips, and said in a tentative voice: “The river is very near.”

  The Old Man said, “We’ll give them a Christian burial, little though they deserve it.”

  “Si, Señor. I will take on shovel. This is a grave I will dig with pleasure.”

  The Old Man said, “Pat, Turkey, give him a hand." Turkey LeBow, a middle-aged rider with a long neck and a prominent Adam’s apple, said without emphasis, “Be glad to oblige, but I’ve got an arm that quit working a while back. Seems to be a hole in it” He swayed in the saddle as he spoke.

  “Help him down,” the Old Man said. “Get him over by the fire and fetch my tools and I’ll have a look. . . . Anybody else? Well, as we used to say during the war, if you can’t be bullet-proof, it helps to be lucky. Coosie, you stop shaking and rustle up some hot water and coffee. Chuck, you get after that remuda, boy. We’re still in the cattle business, in case you’d forgotten, and we’re going to need fresh horses as soon as we hear from . . .”

  Joe Paris, who’d ridden to a nearby point of vantage, whistled softly. “Rider coming in, Major.”

  The Old Man’s voice was even. “Dave?”

  “No, sir. Looks like Sam Biederman.” Joe hesitated, and cleared his throat. “But he’s leading a pony with something across the saddle, wrapped in a slicker. . .

  CHAPTER 3

  Jesse McAuliffe turned his horse without a word, heading out to meet the incoming rider. After a moment, Chuck kicked his own tired mount into motion and followed. The rest of the crew remained where they were, not wishing to intrude on a family matter. The Old Man did not glance aside when Chuck caught up with him. On the rise west of camp, they reined in, having come far enough to recognize the lead animal as Dave’s bay night horse. They waited without speaking until Sam Biederman reached them.

  Sam was a big blond man with a red and normally cheerful face, but his features were grim and hard now. He met the Old Man’s look, shook his head, and looked away. Jesse McAuliffe dismounted deliberately and walked forward to move the folds of the slicker aside. He stood there for several seconds in silence, then replaced the slicker the way it had been. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

  “Where did you find him?”

  “Only about a mile out, it was,” Sam Biederman said. “Lacey, he is with the main bunch of cattle, upstream. Dave we never saw after the first mix-up. When light come, I ride back to look. The pony was just standing there.”

  “Powder bums,” the Old Man said.

  Sam nodded. “I think he must have run right into one of them in the dark, maybe after they turned back. Empty his gun was, and in his hand.”

  The Old Man nodded. He said quietly, “We’ll bury him up here on higher ground. Chuck, fetch my Bible . . . and, Chuck. . . .”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell Miguel we’ll be needing the shovels here.” The Old Man’s voice was steady enough, but a hint of strong emotion ran through it. “He can use the river for his chore, like he wanted to. I don’t want those Yankees lying in the same ground.”

  It didn’t take long. When the time came, the Old Man read a few words from the Bible. His voice was quite flat and emotionless now.

  They spent the next two days rounding up strays. It was raining the morning they hit the trail again, leaving the crude wooden cross behind them. They could see it for a couple of hours through the rain; then a low ridge blocked it from view.

  “Chuck,” Joe Paris said, riding alongside, “never look back.”

  “No, sir,” Chuck said.

  “Get up there with the drag. Turkey’s taking over supervision of these broomtails until his arm heals.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chuck said.

  Joe Paris grimaced. “Don’t try that phony humility on me, bub. It’s been yessir and nosir ever since we left Texas. What are you trying to prove, anyway?”

  “Prove?” Chuck said. “I’m not trying to prove anything.”

  Joe glanced ahead to where Jesse McAuliffe was riding. “So he didn’t appreciate all the hard work you’d put into the place while he was away, is that it? He maybe made some comment that the house needed painting, or that there seemed to be a hell of a lot of unbranded stock running around. And maybe he wasn’t as patient with damn-fool questions about the war as he should have been. Don’t any of us like to talk about it much.” Chuck didn’t speak, and Joe went on: “Did it maybe occur to you that he hadn’t had it so easy himself for those four years? I can tell you; I was with him. And a man who comes back from a war is seldom the same man who went away, particularly when he’s had the job of leading other men to their death. And what he comes back to generally isn’t what it was, either.”

  Chuck said dryly, “He made that clear enough, for a fact."

  “I wasn’t referring to the ranch,” Joe said. “I was referring to you, bub. He left an eleven-year-old kid behind and returned to find a fifteen-year-old sprout with a chip on his shoulder and the notion he ought to be treated with consideration and respect, like a grown man. So you got off on the wrong foot, right at the start, both of you. He’d been giving orders for four years and so, by God, had you, in your little way, around the ranch. You’d been the man of the place, and you weren’t in a hurry to play second or third fiddle gracefully. Dave declared himself out, being an easygoing sort, but you and the Major . . . you weren’t either of you going to give an inch, you damn stubborn McAuliffes. So you’ve been feuding politely for close onto three years now.”

  “Wouldn’t call it a feud, exactly,” Chuck protested.

  “Call it what you please,” Joe snapped. “You know what I mean. And then this drive came along, and you got stuck with the job of wrangler, which hurt your dignity some more, and it’s been yessir and nosir ever since. How long are you planning to keep it up, boy? You’re about all the family he’s got left, now, and he’s about all the family you’ve got left. One of you is going to have to make the first move, and you’re a lot younger than he is. Thin
k it over, and now get the hell on up there and see if the rumps of those cattle look so much better than the rear ends of these horses. . . .”

  That night, fifteen miles north of the river, the rain turned into a regular deluge accompanied by a display of thunder and lightning to beat anything they’d met so far. The longhorns put up with it for a while; then a bolt of lightning struck nearby and they were gone. They ran all that night. Every time they were stopped, another lightning flash would stampede them again. By morning the herd was scattered all over the countryside.

  It took another two days to get it back together again and on the trail. The weather had cleared now, and Chuck rode along, numb with weariness, but grateful for the warmth of the sun on his head and shoulders. Maybe, he thought hopefully, with a couple of days like this, they’d get to sleep in dry blankets for a change, assuming that an opportunity to sleep ever presented itself. He wasn’t aware, particularly, when the Old Man returned from one of his frequent scouting expeditions, but presently Joe Paris came riding back to the drag.

  “The Major says there’s a wagon in trouble over that way,” he reported, pointing to the northeast. “Got a woman with it, he says. She’s probably some Yankee settler’s wife, old as Christmas and ugly as sin, but any woman ought to be a welcome change from the view you’ve got here.” He looked at the lean steers shuffling on ahead, tails swinging. “Come on, let’s go take a look.”

  They rode off across the rolling land. Chuck found himself yawning wide enough to dislocate his jaw. If an angel from Heaven were to appear before him—which wasn’t likely, here in Indian Territory—he didn’t think he’d be greatly interested. All he really wanted was sleep.

  They found the wagon readily enough, in a hollow, where anybody should have had sense enough not to drive a vehicle after a spell of wet weather. It was a light farm wagon with a canvas-covered bed, and the tires were much too narrow for rough going—a regular butcher-knife wagon. It was bogged down quite thoroughly. The horses had quit and were just standing there patiently in the mud in spite of the angry figure in skirts tugging and beating at them—probably swearing at them, too, although the sound didn’t carry. There didn’t seem to be anybody else around.