cattle mighty tired. After awhile Orrin stopped near me.
“Tyrel, I sure wish you and Laura cottoned to each other more’n you do.”
“If you like her, Orrin, that’s what matters. I can’t be no different than I am,
and something about her doesn’t ring true. Orrin, the way I see it, you’d always
play second fiddle to her old man.”
“That’s not true,” He said, but there wasn’t much force in it.
After awhile we met again and stopped together. “Ma’s not getting younger,” he
said, “and we’ve been gone a year.”
A coyote made talk to the stars, but nothing else seemed to be stirring.
“If we sell this herd we’ll have more money than any Sackett ever heard of, and
I figure we should buy ourselves an outfit and start ranching. Then we ought to
get some book learning. Especially you, Orrin. You could make a name for
yourself.”
Orrin’s thoughts were afar off for a minute or two, gathering dreams somewhere
along tomorrow’s road. “I’ve had it in mind,” he said finally.
“You’ve a talking way with you, Orrin. You could be governor.”
“I haven’t the book learning.”
“Davy Crockett went to Congress. Andrew Johnson was taught to read and write by
his wife. I figure we can get the book learning. Hell, man, if youngsters can
learn we should be able to throw it and hog-tie it. I figure you should study
law. You’ve got a winning way with that Welsh tongue of yours.”
We drove through Dodge on to Abilene, and that town had spread itself all over
the prairie, with saloons side by each, all of them going twenty-four hours to
the day, and packed most of the time.
Everywhere a man looked around the town there were herds of Texas cattle. “We
came to the wrong market,” Cap said dourly, “we should have sold out in Dodge.”
We swung the herd into a tight circle and saw several riders coming toward us.
Two of them looked like buyers and the other two looked like trouble. Orrin did
his talking to the first two, Charlie English and Rosie Rosenbaum. Rosenbaum was
a stocky man with mild blue eyes, and I could tell by the way he was sizing up
our cattle that he knew beef.
“How many head have you got?” he asked Orrin.
“Seven hundred and forty, as of last night,” Orrin said, “and we want a fast
deal.”
The other two had been studying our herd and sizing us up.
“I should think you would,” one of them said, “those are stolen cattle.”
Orrin just looked at him. “My name is Orrin Sackett, and I never stole anything
in my life.” He paused. “And I never had anything stolen from me, either.”
The man’s face shadowed. “You’ve got Two-Bar cattle in that herd,” he said, “and
I’m Ernie Webb, foreman of the Two-Bar.”
“There are Two-Bar cows in that herd, and we rounded them up in the Colorado
country along with a lot of wild cattle. If you want to claim them get your boss
and we’ll talk a deal, but he’ll pay for the rounding up and driving.”
“I don’t need the boss,” Webb replied, “I handle my own trouble.”
“Now see here,” Rosenbaum interfered quietly. “There’s no need for this. Sackett
is reasonable enough. Get your boss and when the matter is settled, I’ll buy.”
“You stay out of this.” Webb was staring at Orrin, a trouble-hunting look on his
face. “This is a rustled herd and we’re taking it over.”
Several rough-looking riders had been drifting closer, very casually. I knew a
box play when I saw one. Where I was sitting Webb and his partner couldn’t see
me because Sunday was between us. They’d never seen Orrin before but they’d both
seen me that day on the plains of east Kansas.
“Cap,” I said, “if they want it, let’s let them have it.”
“Tom,” I wheeled my horse around Sunday which allowed me to flank Webb and his
partner, “this man may have been foreman for Two-Bar once, but he also rode with
Back Rand.”
Cap had stepped down from his saddle and had his horse between himself on the
oncoming riders, his rifle across his saddle. “You boys can buy the herd,” Cap
said, “but you’ll buy it the hard way.”
The riders drew up.
Rosenbaum was waiting right in the middle of where a lot of lead could be flying
but there wasn’t a quiver in him. For a man with no stake in the deal, he had
nerve.
Webb had turned to look at me, and Orrin went on like he hadn’t been
interrupted. “Mr. Rosenbaum, you buy these cattle and keep track of any odd
brands you find. I think they’ll check with those in our tally books, and we’ll
post bond for their value and settle with any legitimate claimant but nobody is
taking any cattle from us.”
Ernie Webb had it all laid out for him nice and pretty, and it was his turn to
call the tune. If he wanted to sashay around a bit he had picked himself four
men who could step to the music.
“It’s that loudmouth kid,” Webb said, “somebody will beat it out of him someday,
and then rub his nose in it.”
“You try,” Orrin invited. “You can have any one of us, but that kid will blow
you loose from your saddle.”
We sold out for thirty-two dollars a head, and Rosenbaum admitted it was some of
the fattest stock brought into Abilene that year. Our herd had grazed over
country no other herds travelled and with plenty of water. We’d made our second
lucky drive and each of us had a notion we’d played out our luck.
When we got our cash we slicked out in black broadcloth suits, white shirts, and
new hats. We were more than satisfied and didn’t figure to do any better than
what we had.
Big John Ryan showed up to talk cattle. “This the Sackett outfit?”
“We’re it.”
“Hear you had Tumblin’ R stock in your herd?”
“Yes, sir. Sit down, will you?” Orrin told him about it. “Seven head, including
a brindle steer with a busted horn.”
“That old devil still alive? Nigh cost me the herd a few times and if I’d caught
him I’d have shot him. Stampede at the drop of a hat and take a herd with him.”
“You’ve got money coming, Mr. Ryan. At thirty-two dollars a head we figure—”
“Forget it. Hell … anybody with gumption enough to round up those cows and
drive them over here from Colorado is entitled to them. Besides, I just sold two
herds of nearly six thousand head … seven head aren’t going to break me.”
He ordered a drink. “Fact is, I’d like to talk to you boys about handling my
herd across the Bozeman Trail.”
Orrin looked at me. “Tom Sunday is the best cattleman among us. Orrin and me, we
want to find a place of our own.”
“I can’t argue with that. My drive will start on the Neuces and drive to the
Musselshell in Montana. How about it, Sunday?”
“I think not. I’ll trail along with the boys.”
There I sat with almost six thousand dollars belonging to me and about a
thousand more back in Sante Fe, and I was scared. It was the first time in my
life I’d ever had anything to lose. The way I saw it unless a man knows where
he’s going he isn’t going anywhere at all. We wanted a home for Ma, and a ranch,
and we also wanted enough education to face the changing times. It was time to
do some serious thinking.
A voice interrupted. “Aren’t you Tyrel Sackett?”
It was the manager of the Drovers’ Cottage. “There’s a letter for you.”
“A letter?” I looked at him stupidly. Nobody had ever written me a letter.
Maybe Ma … I was scared. Who would write to me?
It looked like a woman’s handwriting. I carefully unfolded the letter. It scared
me all hollow. Worst of it was, the words were handwritten and the letters were
all which-way and I had a time making them out. But I wet my lips, dug in my
heels, and went to work—figuring a man who could drive cattle could read a
letter if he put his mind to it.
First off there was the town: Santa Fe. And the date. It was written only a week
or so after we left Santa Fe.
Dear Mr. Sackett:
Well, now! Who was calling me mister? Mostly they called me Tyrel, or Tye, or
Sackett.
The letter was signed Drusilla.
Right about then I started to get hot around the neck and ears, and took a quick
look to see if anybody noticed. You never saw so many people paying less
attention to anybody.
They heard I was in Santa Fe and wondered why I did not visit them. There had