The Last Trail Drive (8 page)

Once the buckboard was loaded, Clint told them to go on ahead.

“I'll saddle my horse and be along.”

“Okay, Boss,” Daltry said.

“Thanks for the help,” Roland said.

Clint nodded, picked up his saddlebags and rifle again. The two men climbed up on to the buckboard and headed out of town. Clint went to the livery to saddle Eclipse.

 

When he caught up to the two men, they looked at him in surprise.

“You caught up quick,” Daltry said.

“Yeah, but look what he's ridin',” Roland commented.

“That's some horse,” Daltry said.

“Yeah, he is,” Clint replied. “Come on, let's pick it up. Flood wants to get moving today.”

“That's why he got us movin' this mornin' even before sunup,” Daltry said.

“Well then, let's keep moving,” Clint said.

 

When they rode into camp, Flood greeted Clint and had two men take the buckboard from Daltry and Roland, so they could eat breakfast.

“Come on over to the fire,” Flood said. “I'll have somebody take care of your horse.”

“Just leave him be,” Clint said. “We're going to be moving out soon anyway, right?”

“That's right.”

“Just have somebody give him some grain, but don't try to touch him,” Clint said. “They'll lose their fingers.”

“Right. I'll meet you by the fire.”

Flood went to find somebody who could follow Clint's instructions and feed Eclipse.

As Clint approached the fire in front of the chuckwagon, Spud stepped up and handed him a plate of scrambled eggs and a cup of coffee. Clint tasted the coffee right away and nodded approvingly.

“Now that's what I call trail coffee,” he said. “What's in the eggs?”

“Peppers, onions, some crumbled bacon,” Spud said.

“Sounds good.” He forked some in. “Tastes great. Thanks, Spud.”

“No, man, thank you,” Spud said. “Because of you I got a reason to live again.”

“For three months, anyway,” Clint said, sitting on a crate.

“Well, yeah,” Spud said, “but who's to say this really is the last trail drive, ya know? Things could change.”

“I guess they could,” Clint said, but he didn't think it was very likely.

Flood came back, got a cup of coffee from Spud, and sat next to Clint.

“After you finish your breakfast I'll introduce you to all the men,” he said. “They're all good boys.”

“Maybe not.”

“Whataya mean?”

“I mean, for all we know Trevor's killer is one of these men,” Clint said. “What better way to slip out of town than as part of this crew?”

“I know these boys, Clint,” Flood said.

“All of them?”

“Well . . . most of 'em.”

“Really?” Clint asked. “Why don't you tell me about the ones you don't know so well?”

As it turned out Flood was dead sure about only six of his men. That left five—including Spud—who he had not known much about before hiring.

“But Trevor knew 'em,” Flood added, “at least, three of 'em.”

“So he was confident about them?”

“Well, not really,” Flood said. “He knew 'em, knew they'd worked other drives, but he hadn't worked with them himself.”

“How did he get along with the three men?”

“Trevor didn't socialize with the men,” Flood said. “I don't either. They worked for us, so we weren't lookin' to become friends.”

“I understand,” Clint said, “but that means we can't exclude those three men as suspects.”

“I guess not.”

Flood took Clint's empty plate and handed it to Spud, so the cook could finish cleaning up.

“Hang on to that coffee cup,” he told Clint. “It's yours.”

“Right.”

They got up and walked to their horses.

“Hank, those three men have to be our top suspects,” Clint said.

“That may be,” Flood said, “but right now I just need them to be cowboys.”

“If one of them killed Trevor, he may not be done,” Clint said. “If his goal is to derail this trail drive, you could be next.”

“Maybe his goal was simply to kill Jack,” Flood said. “Maybe it has nothin' to do with the drive.”

“That could be,” Clint said, “but if you don't mind, I'm going to be cautious.”

“If you're gonna watch those men, you'll have to watch all of them.”

“I planned on doing that, anyway,” Clint said. “I always watch the men around me. They may not all be happy that I'm here.”

“I don't think any of these men are lookin' for a rep for killin' you, Clint.”

“You never know, Hank,” Clint said. “I've been shot at before by men who previously had no thought of a reputation.”

“Okay,” Flood said. “You watch the men, but make sure you watch my beeves, too.”

“Don't worry, Hank,” Clint said. “I intend to do my job.”

 

Clint and Flood mounted their horses, followed by the rest of the men. Spud got his chuckwagon ready to travel while they all rode out to the herd. The biggest drive Clint ever went on was years ago, three thousand head. By comparison this thousand was a small herd, he knew that number could swell during the trip with the addition of strays.

He watched as the men circled the herd and started them moving. The first order of business was to ford the Red River. In the past many men and cattle had been lost to drowning in this river, probably the most treacherous of all the rivers they'd have to cross on this drive. They were either good enough or lucky enough not to lose any this time.

It must have been luck, because at that time nobody's talents stood out. The men all looked equally adept at what they were doing, but that could change on the trail. It didn't take much just to get a herd moving. In fact, sometimes it took more talent to get them to stop.

As Clint and Flood watched the men get the herd moving, they didn't know they weren't the only ones who were watching.

 

“Who's the new guy?” Larry Morgan asked.

“Clint Adams,” Santiago Jones answered.

Morgan looked at Jones. The half-breed was a big man with a deep chest and broad shoulders. His black hair was cut very short, but he still wore a headband. Morgan knew that Jones had killed men in every way possible, including with his hands.

“The Gunsmith?”

“That's right.”

“He's replacing Jack Trevor?”

“Yes.”

“That's not good.”

Jones shrugged.

“It won't be a problem.”

“What about Trevor?”

“What about him?”

“Do we know who killed him?”

“I know.”

“Who was it?”

Jones looked at Morgan. The man's stare made him feel cold.

“I know,” he said, again.

“All right,” Morgan said. “You and the others follow them. Do what you can to make sure they don't get where they're going.

Crossing the Red River put them in Indian territory. In the old days an attack by Indians was always a possibility. It was much less so now, but there was always a chance of a small raiding party, so they had to keep alert.

Part of Spud's job as cook was to ride ahead of the herd, pick out a place for a campsite, and have a meal ready for the cowboys as they came in. After three days, about thirty miles, and three campsites Flood was satisfied that Spud knew his job.

After the same three days, Clint thought all the men seemed to know what they were doing. A few rode out in front of the herd, while the others either rode “flank” or “drag.” One of them drove the “hoodlum” wagon, the one that carried all of the men's bedrolls. When driving a herd, men had to be able to maneuver quickly with their horses, which meant no extra weight on the animals, not even a bedroll.

Daltry, one of the men Clint had helped with the buckboard, was in charge of the remuda. He had to care for the extra horses and make sure they were always ready when a cowboy had to switch from a tired mount to a fresh one.

At night the job of watching over the herd was shared by everyone.

On the fourth night Clint and Flood sat off to one side, sharing their meal. They always ate away from the main body of men.

“Whataya think?” Flood asked.

“I've been watching all the men,” Clint said. “Seems to me they all know their jobs.”

“What if we mixed up their jobs?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean a good drover, and professional waddie, can do any job on a drive. So we take the men riding flank and make them switch with the men who are riding drag. We make somebody else handle the remuda, and the hoodlum wagon.

“You want to switch somebody with Spud?” Clint asked.

“Hell, no,” Flood said. “The man's a magician with the chuckwagon, and he picks out good campsites. I don't want to play around with him.”

“That's fine,” Clint said. “I'll start switching things up. If anybody doesn't belong he'll soon start to stand out.”

“Good.”

“Now what about the fact that we're being followed?” Clint asked.

“What?” Flood asked. “By who?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “I thought you'd be able to tell me who.”

Flood stopped chewing and stared at Clint.

“Whataya mean by that?”

“I mean I think there's something you're not telling me, Hank,” Clint said.

“Like what?”

“Like there's more to this last drive than meets the eye,” Clint said. “Like maybe if you thought I knew I wouldn't have come along. Well, it's too late now, isn't it? I'm here.”

Flood chewed and swallowed, washing it down with a swig of coffee.

“It's not too late,” he said. “You could always leave.”

“It's one of my faults, Hank,” Clint said. “I always finish what I start.”

“Okay,” Flood said. “Okay.” He put his plate down and stood up. “Let's go for a walk.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't want to talk here,” Flood said.

Clint frowned. If he didn't know Flood, and trust him, he wouldn't have agreed.

“Okay, Hank,” Clint said. “Let's go for a walk.”

 

“You ever heard of a man named Larry Morgan?” Flood asked, when they were between the campsite and the herd.

“That sounds like a pretty common name,” Clint said, “but no, I haven't.”

“He used to be a trail boss, like me,” Flood said, “but lately, the last few years, he's gone rogue.”

“Rogue?” Clint asked. “How does a trail boss go rogue?”

“Instead of headin' up a trail drive and a gang of drovers, he heads up a gang of killers.”

“A private army?” Clint asked. “Mercenaries?”

“Not quite,” Flood said. “They ain't that disciplined. They're just a bunch of killers. His segundo is a half-breed named Santiago Jones.”

“Jones? That his real name?”

“Who knows?” Flood asked. “But the man is a killer, pure and simple. Worst of the bunch.”

“And what does this all have to do with your last trail drive?”

“Morgan heard about it,” Flood said. “He's determined to see that I don't get this herd to the end of the line.”

“So he killed Trevor?”

Flood shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “Maybe. But he knows me well enough to know that wouldn't slow me down.”

“So it still could have been something personal that got Trevor killed.”

“Yup.”

They stopped when they got to the point where they could see and hear the herd. There were several riders on watch, and Flood was thinking of increasing that number now that Clint told him they were being followed.

“We bein' followed, or watched?” he asked Clint.

“That's a good question,” Clint said. “I haven't seen anybody, but it's not hard to follow a herd of a thousand steers. But it could be that we're being watched.”

“Might not be Morgan,” Flood said. “Might be rustlers.”

“The last rustlers trying to steal steers from the last trail drive?” Clint asked.

“As if my life could get any more confused,” Flood said. “I'm a man who doesn't like change, Clint, and there's lots of change comin'.”

“I know how you feel,” Clint said. The time was coming—and fast—when he and some of his friends, like Bat Master-son and Wyatt Earp, were going to be out of date. He wasn't looking forward to that, either.

Santiago Jones pushed himself back from the crest of the rise, so he could stand without being seen from below. The other two men with him watched and waited, but when nothing was forthcoming and the man continued to stand like a statue, one of them spoke up.

“Hey, Jones?” Bill Lacey said. “What's goin' on down there?”

“Nothing,” Jones said. “They are camped for the night.”

“The herd bein' watched?” Steve Peters asked.

Jones looked at him with cold eyes. “Of course, it's being watched.”

“Why don't we just stampede it?” Lacey asked. “I mean, that would pretty much put an end to this drive. Ain't that what the boss wants?”

Jones looked at Lacey, who got the chills.