Texas Drive Page 3

  The moon was almost full now, and the cattle huddled together, lowing quietly. As they shuffled their feet, their backs, silvered by the moon, looked almost like a huge lake. They were leaving in two days, and Ted knew he had to decide by the following night.

  He didn’t want to go, but he wasn’t sure why. He knew he didn’t want to leave Ellie, and her father would never let her tag along. He thought about asking her to marry him, but he was too young and probably too scared. So his choice boiled down to staying with her or riding out of her life, because Johnny had no intentions of coming back. Kansas was a long way, and Ted knew he’d never come back alone, even if he wanted to.

  He was on his third circuit of the herd when he saw something move on the far edge. Ted stood in the stirrups to get a better look, but whatever it was had stopped. He prodded his pony and nudged it into the herd. The cows shuffled aside as the pony waded through. He noticed some stirring at the far edge, as if something had spooked the cattle.

  Halfway across, he saw it again and this time there was no mistake. A man on foot was moving along the outer edge of the herd. It looked as if he didn’t know he’d been spotted. Ted drew his Colt, but couldn’t fire without starting a stampede. He was almost across when he got another look at the intruder.

  A Comanche, in full regalia, slipped along the edge of the herd. Ted watched him, but couldn’t figure out what the Indian was trying to do. But he also knew that there would be more of them, out there in the dark. The cattle had gotten very restless, nudging one another and raising their heads to sniff the wind. They started to move a bit now, milling in a circle.

  A spurt of flame lit up the Indian for a moment, then died down. The Indian dropped out of sight, but the dim orange glow persisted. He could smell smoke now and kicked his horse harder. A second and third spurt of flame blossomed, both of them closer to the front edge of the herd, near the chuck wagon.

  The Comanches were trying to stampede the herd. The dry, brittle grass of late summer, almost explosively flammable with the long absence of rain, was already beginning to burn. The flames licked along the outer edge of the herd as Ted broke through, the cattle sensed the flames and backed away, kicking at the earth in their fear. If they got moving, there would be no stopping them.

  Ted jumped from his horse and ripped his saddle loose. Snaring the blanket, he raced toward the first fire and started to swat the flames. Every stroke of the blanket sent coils of flaming embers up into the air where they winked out and drifted off like black snow.

  He beat the first fire to ashes, but four more were burning, and the nearest steers were pushing nervously at the herd. The sharp tang of burnt grass filled the air as Ted raced to the second fire. A shot cracked in the dark, and a bullet whined past his hip and slammed into a calf. Ted turned to see the animal stagger once, then fell to its knees. The shot did what the fire was meant to, and the cows started to bellow.

  Already, Ted could hear the distant thunder of hooves as the far side of the herd started to run, the steers on the edge pressured by the cattle behind them. Ted flailed at the second fire, ignoring the fact that it was already too late to stop the stampede.

  He heard shouts in the distant darkness, then yips as two or three of the hands mounted up and tried to head off the cattle before they got up a full head of steam. Ted moved to the third fire and raised the blanket again. He had started down when he caught something in the corner of his eye. He turned as he realized what it was. The Comanche, a knife in his left hand, hurtled toward him, and Ted swung the blanket down. He knew it wouldn’t stop the knife, but the Indian was already too close for him to step aside.

  Ted fell backward, twisting the thick wool as he rolled to one side. He’d snared the Indian and twisted again as he tried to get up. The Comanche’s hand flailed at him, the blade narrowly missing him as he tripped again. Ted kicked out with his left leg and landed a glancing blow on the Comanche’s ribs. The Indian grunted with the impact and fell to one knee. Ted grabbed for the Colt on his hip and brought it up as the Indian jerked his arm free of the snare.

  He fired point-blank, and the Comanche jerked upright for a second, then toppled over on his side. In the moonlight, the blood seeping from the Indian’s chest looked like liquid coal. Ted scrambled to his feet and bent over him. The Indian looked up, his lips curled back in hatred. In the orange light of the lingering flames he looked almost demonic.

  Ted cocked his Colt and aimed it. The Comanche tried to get to his feet, but he didn’t have the strength. Propped on one hip, he lay there panting. Ted turned away, lowering the hammer and holstering the gun. The brave was no threat.

  Snatching at the blanket, he raced to the next fire and flailed at the flames until they were reduced to glowing straws. The light rose and fell as the wind moaned past, then they died out altogether. In the distance, he could hear the hands rounding the herd and driving it to let the cattle run off their terror.

  Scattered gunshots cracked over the thunder of the hooves. He saw another Comanche, this one on horseback, race toward him. Hitting the ground, he grabbed the Colt and snapped off a shot. The Indian charged past, tossing a lance, but didn’t stop. The lance grazed Ted, piercing his shirt and pinning him to the ground. He ripped the cloth away, wiped the blood on his shirt, and got to his knees.

  He turned, waiting for the Indian to charge back, but the sound of the horse receded in the night. When it was gone, he got to his feet, holding his side. He could feel the trickle of blood between his fingers, hot and sticky. He could smell it and wanted to gag.

  Ted walked toward the Comanche, who was lying on his back now. Behind him, he heard hoofbeats and reached for his gun. Johnny skidded to a halt. He dismounted and raced toward his brother.

  “What the hell happened? Where were you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know damn well. How did this happen? Why the hell were you night riding, to watch the goddamned moon?”

  Johnny spotted the Comanche and brushed past. He prodded the Indian in the ribs with the toe of one boot. The brave moaned. His eyes opened and he stared up at Johnny.

  “Christ almighty, he ain’t even dead! Can’t you do nothing right?”

  “He was no …”

  Johnny drew his gun and cocked the hammer. Ted grabbed his arm, but Johnny shook him off.

  “Don’t …” Ted shouted, but Johnny ignored him. He fired once, then again, hitting the Indian in the head and the heart. Johnny turned, shaking his head.

  “You yellow bastard …” He brushed past Ted, glanced at the wound in his side, but said nothing. Johnny grabbed the reins and swung up into the saddle. “We’re leaving first light. No thanks to you, we have enough beeves to head north. I don’t imagine you’ll be comin’.”

  Johnny wheeled his horse and galloped away. Ted stood there watching horse and rider disappear. When his brother was out of sight, he glanced at the dead Comanche once, then walked back to his horse. It hurt to mount up but he ignored the pain and spurred the pony once, just hard enough to get him moving.

  The sound of the herd off in the distance was growing more subdued, even as he approached. He moved past the mess wagon, but didn’t stop. He skirted the edge of the herd, now just milling in a broad circle. He spotted a hand, but couldn’t tell it was Rafe until he got closer.

  Rafe looked at him long and hard, but didn’t say anything until their mounts were almost nose to nose.

  “You see Johnny?” he asked.

  Ted nodded.

  Rafe saw the blood and started to ask a question, then changed his mind. “I got work, Teddy. See you in the morning.”

  “Where’s Johnny now?”

  “Riding point.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’d give him some time, I was you. He was madder’n hell.”

  Ted ignored the advice. He pushed his pony around the edge of the herd and prodded it into a gallop. He passed two hands on the way, but they didn’t acknowledge him. When he reache
d the head of the herd, he spotted Johnny almost immediately.

  He closed on his brother, nudging his horse alongside, squeezing in between Johnny and Ralph Dalton. Dalton spat once, then shook his head as he moved away.

  “Johnny …”

  His brother didn’t answer.

  “Dammit, Johnny, talk to me.”

  “Must be hearing things,” Johnny mumbled. “Swear I heard something.” He turned and looked through Ted as if he were a pane of glass. “Nope. Don’t see nothing.”

  Ted grabbed Johnny’s arm and jerked it. The sleeve of Johnny’s shirt started to groan, but it held and Johnny clapped a hand over Ted’s wrist. This time he spoke directly to him.

  “You let go or I’ll break your goddamned arm, you hear?”

  Ted swung, but missed. Johnny leapt from the saddle, swatting the pony on the rump to chase it away. “Come on, you damned yellow-belly. Come on!”

  Ted kicked his pony and threw himself on Johnny as the horse moved past. They both went sprawling in the dust, and Johnny, who was the larger of the two, grabbed Ted around the head and got to his knees.

  “Let go,” Ted shouted, his voice almost strangled in his throat by the pressure of his brother’s arm. He broke free and landed a vicious jab to Johnny’s ribs. Doubled over by the punch, Johnny charged straight on, his head smashing into Ted’s bleeding rib cage.

  Johnny straightened him up and swung twice, connecting both times. Ted fell to the ground and Johnny stood over him, a fist cocked, and panting. “Too late for heroics, Teddy. You had your chance. Trouble is, you just don’t know what side you’re on. Now get up and get out of my sight.”

  Ted tried to rise, but his side hurt too much. A searing pain flared along his ribs, and it stabbed at him with every breath. Johnny turned and walked away. When he reached his horse, he mounted without looking back.

  “Wait,” Ted called, “come back.”

  But Johnny ignored him. Rafe reined in as Ted was getting to his knees. “You want me to go after him?”

  Ted shook his head. “What’s the use?”

  “None that I can see. Not right now …”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “He’ll cool down some, pretty soon.”

  “Yeah.”

  But Ted knew he wouldn’t. Not for a long time, if ever.

  5

  TED COTTON SAT on the ridge, watching the herd move out. The valley below him was filled with the sound of bellowing cattle. Their hooves kicked up great clouds of dust. The clouds swirled in a hot wind, obscuring parts of the herd and wrapping the drovers in a thick blanket of light brown. Here and there, one of the hands would pop into view for a few seconds, his face covered with a kerchief to keep out the choking dust. Hats, shirts, and pants had turned a uniform beige.

  Ted wanted to see Johnny one more time. But the dust and the wind conspired to deprive him. Tempted to charge down into the valley, he struggled and overcame it, but not without cost. He hated to see Johnny go like this. But his brother was pigheaded. And something ate at him from the inside. Johnny wouldn’t talk about it, but he wasn’t much for talking anyway. Shrugging his shoulders, Ted resigned himself to the possibility he might never see Johnny again.

  The herd, like a heaving river of sinew, poured through the valley, funneled through its narrow mouth, and gradually disappeared. When it was out of sight, he could still hear it. The shouts of the drovers were no longer audible, but the thunder of twelve thousand hooves shook the air around him. He could feel the ground rumbling even through his horse’s legs and up through his own. It felt as if the earth were shifting beneath him the least little bit, trying to make up its mind which way to go. Slowly the sound and trembling died away, leaving only the dust cloud, a pale brown stain on an otherwise unblemished blue sky.

  Then the cloud, too, was gone.

  Ted still sat on his horse, wondering what would become of him. He wondered whether he should have toughed it out, forced himself on Johnny. It was his right. They were brothers, after all. But Johnny didn’t want him along. Maybe it was even worse than that. Maybe Johnny was glad to be leaving him behind, glad at the prospect of never seeing him again.

  And maybe Johnny was right. Maybe there was something wrong with him. Maybe … but the list was endless. There was nothing he could do about it anyway. Johnny was gone, taking with him the only living connection to a past already so distant it might have belonged to someone else.

  He thought about going to see Ellie. But there was nothing she could say that would change things. What had happened had happened. The only thing he didn’t know was why.

  Johnny didn’t say much that morning. All through the afternoon, he rode apart from the herd, keeping up, just not keeping close. His mind was blank and he felt numb. For long stretches, he felt as if he were watching himself from somewhere above. He could look down, even saw the top of his hat, a dusty speck on a dusty man riding a dusty horse. He knew what he was watching, but he didn’t recognize himself.

  There were too damn many questions, and he had damn few answers. It was better not to try to connect the few and the many. That would leave questions he could have no hope of answering at all. It was the right thing to do. He kept telling himself that over and over. Ted would only get himself killed. Or he might get someone else killed. Not intentionally, of course, but still …

  Rafe tried to cheer him up, but the old man knew what was eating him, and it kept getting in the way. This was something you couldn’t pretend about. It was sitting there between them, a huge rock of uncertainty, and there was no way either man could budge it. Finally, Rafe shrugged and rode back to the herd. Maybe with time, Johnny thought, he could talk about it. And when he was ready, Rafe would be there. Both of them knew that, and it made it easier.

  But not much.

  By noon, the sun had hammered at them for so long, Johnny was already wondering whether he’d made a mistake. He looked up at the sun, tilting his hat back to take the full force of its glare. Through closed eyes, he saw a pink haze and white light like the tip of a glowing poker. It stabbed at him, but he refused to turn away. That wasn’t the kind of man he was.

  Without thinking about it, he understood that changing his mind about anything was not permitted. He didn’t know how to change his mind. It was something you made up, and then you lived with it, come hell or high water. And the late summer sun promised him plenty of the former.

  It would be months before he would sleep on the same spot of ground twice in a row. And that thought didn’t faze him. It didn’t cheer him, either. It was the choice he had made. And maybe, if he kept his scalp and his herd, he could send for Ted, and they could talk it through.

  If Ted would come.

  Johnny kicked his pony and spurted far out ahead of the herd. This was all new to him, and he wasn’t sure how he ought to go about it. It was one thing to round up a small herd and drive it to New Orleans, the way he had once or twice before the war. But New Orleans wasn’t paying enough to make it worth the trip anymore. The real market was back east, maybe St. Louis, maybe Chicago, definitely New York and Boston. But he had to get the cattle to a railhead. That the nearest one was fifteen hundred miles away didn’t help much.

  If you’re going to drive a herd over a thousand miles, he thought, why not two thousand? Or three? The logistics were the same, it just took more time. As he sat on a ridge a mile and a half ahead of the herd, he turned in the saddle and watched the beeves flow up and over the last rise, oozing like mud. The cattle seemed almost playful, spurting ahead here and there, the herd changing shape like a ball of wax in the sun.

  But they were more than beeves. They were his past and his future. It was all he had on earth, that and a few hundred dollars for supplies. To feed his hands, buy ammunition, take care of whatever surprises might sneak up on them until they got where they were going, wherever the hell that was.

  Rafe was unsure, arguing they should head west to New Mexico, where they knew the army was buying beef. B
ut Johnny wouldn’t hear of it. He trusted Rafe, loved him even. The old man was the closest thing he had to a father. But a man had to make his own decisions. That’s what being a man was all about. And that’s what got Teddy all twisted up, trying to listen to that damn Ellie and her Quaker nonsense.

  This was no place to be peaceful. The war had taught him that, and he’d seen nothing since it ended to change his mind. Ellie had softened Teddy, sapped his strength with all her nonsense about loving Indians as well as white men. You couldn’t do that. You couldn’t even think of them as human, if they were at all, because they’d cut your heart out and eat it raw if you gave them the chance.

  Ellie had almost gotten Tommy Dawson killed. Johnny was convinced of that. If she hadn’t filled Ted’s head with such plain horseshit, he wouldn’t have blinked an eye before killing that Comanche. But she had, and he did. And that was all there was to it.

  But the country would toughen Ted up again. Long after it chewed Ellie and her kind up and spat out the bones, Ted would still be there, because he knew how tough it was. He would see how foolish Ellie’s thinking was. If she lasted, if she lived, the country would change her, too. It would make her more like Teddy used to be, ought to be. If she didn’t, Teddy would be free and clear. Either way, he’d have his brother back.

  If he lived long enough.

  As the herd closed in on him, sweeping down the broad slope, painting the sky above it a dull brown, he wished to hell things could have been different. It would be good to know that Teddy was bringing up the rear, the way he always had, ever since they were kids. That’s when they first started calling him Drag Rider. It had stuck, and Teddy had always been happy with it. But not now. Teddy didn’t listen to him anymore. Teddy wanted to go his own way, live by his own rules. Maybe that’s what hurt the most, not having the final say anymore.