Stampede Page 2

  She undressed, folding her dirty clothing over the chair. Naked except for her underwear, her smooth supple skin glowing in the light of the lamp, she kneeled at her cot and said her prayers.

  “Dear Lord,” she whispered, “please help me get my herd to Abilene, and please keep the Indians away.”

  She blew out the lamp, crawled into bed, and closed her eyes. In moments she was fast asleep.

  ~*~

  It was two o’clock in the morning, and Lobo crept toward the herd, his legs bent and nose close to the ground. The rich smell of meat, the most delicious fragrance imaginable, had lured him out of his cave.

  He was hungry, and he wasn’t alone. Other lobos also detected blood, and were converging on the herd with him. They’d attack in a pack, bring down one fat steer, and gorge themselves on his dripping flesh.

  Lobo was the leader, and electricity crackled his veins as he moved upwind from the herd, passing a pile of rocks that once had slept beneath an alluvial sea. To his left was a patch of greasewood, and he veered away because it might conceal deadly snakes, scorpions, or birds that swooped out of the sky and carried you away in their razor talons.

  Lobo looked up, but no birds were there. He came to a stop, and the other lobos gathered around, mouths open and tongues hanging, gazing at the juicy creatures straight ahead. Lobo glanced at his compadres, and their eyes danced with excitement. It was the best sport they knew.

  Lobo crept nearer, his chin scraping the ground. The tactic was get close as possible, then attack swiftly and mercilessly. Slithering through the grass, they heard a sound in the distance, and froze motionless-in the moonlight. It was a cowboy approaching out of the clumps of mesquite and prickly pear.

  The cowboy was John Stone, asleep in his saddle. He was on night duty, riding around the herd, while Joe Little Bear, a half-breed Sioux, rode in the opposite direction. A cow made a sudden bleating sound, and Stone woke suddenly, looked at the cattle, and many were standing, scanning the hills, nervous about something.

  There was only one thing to do. It was ridiculous, but no less an authority than Duke Truscott himself had ordered him to sing to the cattle when they became restless, because the sound of a cowboy’s voice was supposed to be reassuring. Stone opened his mouth and tried to yodel, but sounded like a prairie chicken in its death throes. The cowboys said yodeling calmed the cattle more than anything else, and Stone hoped to refine his technique as the drive progressed.

  Stone patted Tomahawk’s mane, while Tomahawk smelled the faint trace of lobos. Tomahawk’s large luminescent eyes raked over the prairie, and he knew the lobos probably would strike sometime that night, but there was nothing he could do.

  Every cowboy reserved his best horse for night duty, and Tomahawk was a black stallion with good lines, lots of bottom, and keen eyes. He wouldn’t run into a tree, or trip over a gopher hole in the dark. Stone came to steers and cows lying on their sides, wheezing through their great black nostrils. Drooping in his saddle, Stone was weary from four or five hours of sleep per night. He’d learned that a cattle drive was similar to a military campaign, and the only way to survive was get as much sleep as possible.

  Slipchuck had told him the cowboy remedy for sleepiness. He took out his bag of tobacco, placed a pinch on his tongue, and wet it thoroughly. Then he rubbed the tobacco juice into his eyes. It stung like fire, and nearly blinded him, but woke him up. At least he wouldn’t fall off his horse and land on his head.

  A figure loomed out of the night: Joe Little Bear, a husky figure atop a roan pony, wearing a black leather vest over his bare chest, the tooth of a panther hung from a rawhide strand around his neck. His black hair hung to his shoulders, and he carried a long knife in a sheath attached to his belt. The scuttlebutt said his mother had been white, captured by Sioux Indians when she was small, and his father had been an Indian chief.

  “Cattle back there are spooked,” Stone said. “Something’s up.”

  “Wolves,” Joe Little Bear replied, his Indian blood telling him what was up, his large, hooked nose sniffing at the faint scent.

  “Ever been in a stampede?” Stone asked.

  “A few.” Joe Little Bear looked at the knife stuck into Stone’s boot. “Apache,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Had an Apache friend once.”

  Joe Little Bear spat at the ground. “Apaches are killers!”

  “They say the same about the Sioux.”

  “I am a mongrel dog, but I have sharp teeth. Do you know how to use that knife, John Stone?”

  “If I didn’t know how to use it, I wouldn’t carry it.”

  Joe Little Bear pulled out his own knife, and moonbeams rolled along the blade. “Want to fight, John Stone?”

  “Up to you.”

  Joe Little Bear laughed and put his spurs to his horse’s flanks. The roan plodded away, and Stone was left alone at the edge of the herd. Stone urged Tomahawk forward, and they continued to circle, while in the distance he could hear Joe Little Bear singing an old Sioux melody to the skitterish longhorns.

  ~*~

  The lobos waited silently until the riders passed out of earshot, and then moved forward silently over dirt and tufts of grass. They were crazed with food lust, and could almost taste the blood on their tongues.

  They wanted to get their teeth into the meat, and if it twisted and fought, so much the better. Soundlessly they advanced toward the edge of the herd, and came to a stop. Now it was time to attack, and the first one in ate the liver. Lobo raised himself off the ground slowly, his tiny eyes like chips of ice in the night. He saw the fat steer sleeping, facing toward him.

  Lobo sprang off the ground, and the race was on! An old bull, on guard at the edge of the herd, raised his chin and looked in their direction. He bellowed mightily, and jumped to his feet. The rest of the herd was up two seconds later. They saw the wolves, leapt around, and fled, to escape the vicious sharp teeth snapping at their heels. The herd gathered speed and rumbled across the valley, heading toward the moon.

  ~*~

  Stone, dozing again in his saddle, was awakened by an incredible roar. He opened his eyes, and was horrified to see the entire herd of cattle heading directly toward him.

  Tomahawk spun around quickly and plunged into the night, while Stone tucked in his knees and held on. Behind him he heard the most fearsome sound since the war. He flashed on an image of himself trampled to death beneath twelve thousand hooves, and urged Tomahawk on.

  Tomahawk stretched forward and kicked hard, clods of dirt flying into the air behind him, and the cattle bellowed in terror; Tomahawk could hear their great lungs sucking wind. Stone turned around in his saddle and looked at the thundering herd.

  It was a beast with a thousand eyes, hooting and mooing, horns flashing and popping in the moonlight, hurtling at top speed across the prairie, but Tomahawk could outrun any longhorn who ever lived. He stretched forward smoothly and carried Stone from the path of the stampeding half-crazed bovines.

  Now the herd was thirty yards to Stone’s right, running wildly over the grass and stones. Truscott’s orders were to stay with them, and that’s what Stone intended to do. Tomahawk galloped alongside the cattle, heading for the front rank.

  The sound reminded Stone of cavalry charges during the war, and he crouched low in his saddle. Wind pushed back the brim of his old Confederate campaign hat, and he turned to gaze at moonlight glowing dully on the rippling backs of the cattle. They were a massive undulating brown carpet on a rampage, and Stone had a mad thought: If a man were agile enough, he might walk on that carpet and live to tell the tale. But something wasn’t quite right, and it bothered him. He looked up at the North Star, and realized the herd was headed directly toward the encampment! He pulled out his gun and fired three warning shots, as Tomahawk sped over the prairie, following the thundering, mooing, drooling mass of fear-crazed brutes through the endless night.

  ~*~

  Only one steer had been left behind, his rear legs collapsed under
neath him, the hamstring torn away. This was the fat one selected by the lobos, and they ripped bleeding chunks of flesh off his body with their sharp fangs.

  The steer fought back bravely, trying to gore the lobos with his horns, but they danced nimbly out of his way. A bold lobo lacerated the steer’s foreleg hamstring, and the heavy creature fell on his face. Lobo snarled and lunged forward, tearing a gash in the steer’s throat. The steer struggled, as blood spouted out of the wound, and the steer felt sharp teeth sink into his tender haunches. He took a deep breath, and Lobo darted in again, ripping out half his tongue.

  Blood burbled out of the steer’s mouth, and a lobo chewed off his ear, while another sank a tooth into his eye. The steer fainted from loss of blood, and the lobos dug into him, devouring his warm flesh. Lobo raised his snout to the heavens, howling the victory song.

  ~*~

  Truscott was first to raise his head. A terrible clamor was on the plains, headed directly toward them.

  “Stampede!” He pulled his Colt and fired two warning shots, but everybody was up before the second left the barrel. Truscott and the cowboys ran toward the remuda, but then Truscott remembered Cassandra, and veered toward her tent.

  She poked her head outside, wearing only her underwear. Had somebody said Stampede!

  “Hurry up!” Truscott hollered. “There ain’t much time!”

  She heard the pounding and trampling, her eyes widened, and she charged out of the tent, then realized she wasn’t completely dressed. Turning, she dived back inside and put on her clothes quickly in the dark.

  “Supposed to sleep with yer clothes on!” Truscott hollered.

  She pulled on her boots, dropped her hat on her head, and ran toward him. Truscott grabbed her hand, dragging her toward the remuda.

  “They’re leaving the chuck wagon!” Cassandra protested.

  “No time!” Truscott replied.

  Everybody’s night horse was saddled, in case of emergencies such as the one occurring at that moment. The cowboys and vaqueros already were speeding away, as Cassandra untied her palomino mare, climbed into the saddle, and the mare bounded away before Cassandra was settled, but she managed to hang on. Truscott jumped onto his horse’s back, and the animal neighed in terror. Truscott gave him the spurs, and the chestnut stallion sprang forward, leaping over the dead embers of the campfire, galloping away from the mighty onrushing herd.

  ~*~

  The lobos were covered with blood from head to foot as they feasted on the dead steer. Barking and howling with glee, they ripped strands of flesh away, while their puppies were living balls of gore, digging their needle teeth into juicy steaming meat. A few feet away, Lobo lay in the bushes and chewed the steer’s liver, the choicest part. This was his reward and tribute for being the lobo chief, and he reveled in the rich smelly stuff.

  Every night the lobos sallied forth across the prairie; the search for meat never ended. Sometimes they returned hungry, or they ate creatures smaller than themselves, and occasionally, like tonight, cattle emerged bountifully from the heart of the lobo god.

  Lobo growled with pleasure as the glistening white bones of the steer came into view, and his body disappeared into the bellies of the hungry animals.

  ~*~

  Stone rode beside the burgeoning herd, the night wind stroking his beard. The cattle generated tremendous heat, searing his cheeks, and straight ahead, peacefully composed in the moonlight, were the chuck wagon, Cassandra’s buckboard, the tent, and the fire pit. The cattle rampaged toward them, and Stone recalled his bedroll and saddlebags out there someplace. Everything would be stomped to hell in just a few moments.

  He watched in morbid fascination at the cattle plowed into the chuck wagon, and it shook, tipped over, and was pushed forward by the power of the animals. Some cattle tried to get out of the way, while others slammed into it, breaking their necks. Other cattle piled on top of them, climbed over, and kept charging. Cassandra’s tent went down like paper and disappeared off the face of the earth.

  A figure rode toward him out of the night, and it was Truscott accompanied by Moose Roykins, Calvin Blakemore, and the segundo.

  “Mill ’em!” Truscott shouted, riding hatless through the night, his long mustaches streaming in the wind.

  Stone spurred Tomahawk, and felt the thrill of the chase. They had to shunt the longhorns to the side, working them into a mill that would force them to run in circles until they tired.

  Truscott held his reins tightly and slapped them back and forth over the haunches of his chestnut stallion. The stallion rushed onward, and Moose Roykins rode behind Truscott, with the segundo to the left of Truscott. They saw Calvin Blakemore and Luke Duvall cut in from the right, and then, pulling ahead of them all, were Don Emilio Maldonado and his Mexican vaqueros.

  They yipped and yelled, sang Mexican songs, waved their sombreros in the air. Stone could see a contest developing between Mexicans and the Americans as they rounded the first rank of cattle, and then out of the night rode Ephraim waving his lariat in the air. The cattle saw the mass of riders charging toward them, and swerved to avoid a collision.

  “They turn!” Don Emilio shouted. “¡Vamanos, muchachos!”

  Stone took off his hat and waved it in the air. “Come on, cows!”

  The cattle were confused, and many had forgotten why they were running, but that didn’t stop them. Snorting and dripping long strings of snot from their mouths and noses, they trampled over the prairie, making a wide parabola on the enormous expanse.

  “We got ’em!” Truscott yelled, raising his fist in the air. “Don’t let ’em get away!”

  Chapter Two

  The cattle came to a halt on a vast plain. Their tongues hung out, their eyes were bloodshot, and their breath came in gasps. Sullenly, they gazed at the cowboys in the wan dawn light.

  Truscott called a meeting, and the cowboys gathered around, frazzled and haggard. They slouched in their saddles, and some puffed cigarettes, as Truscott gave assignments m a hoarse, tired voice.

  Stone listened with a headache, and his ass hurt from the night of hard riding. It was like the war, after a big battle, but no one had been shooting at him, and no grapeshot ripped men’s heads off. He figured he’d only slept three hours, but there was work to do.

  Truscott ordered the vaqueros to hold the herd, several cowboys would hunt stray cattle and horses, and the rest return to the campsite to see what could be salvaged.

  Cassandra was in the group that rode back to the campsite, and saw the destroyed chuck wagon. How could they get to Abilene without a chuck wagon? Her buckboard was ruined, and God only knew what happened to her tent. The ground was covered with bits of clothing and blankets. Bags of beans and barrels of flour were demolished. Splinters and chunks of wood lay everywhere. The chuck wagon wheels were smashed.

  Truscott climbed down from his saddle and walked bow-legged in his leggins toward the chuck wagon. “Git the tools out!” he bellowed. “I want this rig runnin’ by noon!”

  Cowboys dismounted and searched for the hammer and nails. Cassandra wheeled her palomino and rode toward the spot where her tent had been pitched. She passed the trampled fire pit, and her eyes fell on dark brown leather, somebody’s saddlebags. She dismounted, picked them up, and they were John Stone’s. A flap had been kicked open, and out fell Stone’s isinglass photo of Marie, in a bent silver frame.

  Cassandra picked it up, and saw a young woman almost her mirror image, but she thought Marie’s features were a little too cute, and her dress overdone with ruffles and lace. Stone had searched for her all across creation, ever since the shooting stopped at Appomattox, so she must have a redeeming quality somewhere, although Cassandra certainly couldn’t see it in the picture. Little Bitch.

  She dropped it into the saddlebags and set to work collecting the salvageable belongings of the other cowboys, as behind her the hammering began.

  ~*~

  At noon the chuck wagon was standing. It had a certain bizarre lean, and numerous
chunks of wood were missing in its superstructure. Patched with rawhide and cottonwood, the wheels had been rebuilt, and the mules recovered, dazed by the madness of three thousand crazy longhorns.

  The cowboys fixed Cassandra’s buckboard, while she sat on the grass near the chuck wagon and watched Ephraim build a fire. He’d found some coffee, and scraped together a few handfuls of beans. They’d live on beef mostly until they could find a town where flour and other commodities could be purchased.

  Ephraim passed her a dinged tin cup filled with thick black liquid, and she raised it to her lips.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Cassandra,” he said, dark eyes flashing. “We’ll make it to Abilene.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she replied wearily, because she wasn’t so sure.

  “This is nothin’.” He gestured toward the scattered herd. “We’ll put it back together.”

  Cattle had been separated from the main herd during the stampede, and cowboys rode the endless wastes, searching for stragglers and holdouts. The hot sun baked their brains, no water was in the vicinity, and Indians could attack at any moment. The stampede had destroyed their water barrels, along with everything else.

  John Stone’s throat felt like sand whenever he swallowed, and his tongue was a ball of cotton. He dreamed of cool, clear water in a tall glass as he rode Tomahawk and swung his lasso, moving four steers back to the herd. He was on a massive rolling plain, and spires jutted into the distant sky.

  He recalled when he’d awakened in his saddle, and seen the herd rushing toward him. For a moment he thought he’d be crushed beneath their hooves, but Tomahawk had galloped away, saving both their lives.

  It reminded him of a drunken binge one night in San Antone, when he’d visited an old Gypsy hag, and she told him he was going to die young. Ever since, her curse undermined his confidence and bedeviled him at every turn. She was a fraud like all Gypsies, and how could anything besides hard work be seen in the calluses of a man’s hand, but the incident ate at his innards like a gray rat, and he couldn’t forget it.