The trail was there, and I picked it up, noticed the general way it led, and rode off to the south of it. After a bit, I cut back north as if hunting for strays, and crossed the trail again.
It was getting almost to noontime when the trail led around the roll of a hill into a gap beyond which I could see more oaks and pecans, with some willows and a few cottonwoods. That gap was green, pleasant to see, and promised water. Both my horse and I were thirsty, with no drink since daybreak, but I didn’t like the looks of that gap … It just looked too good, and I’m a skeptical man. So I kept back in the brush and reined my horse around to the north. And I worked my way up the slope, with frequent stops to listen and look, until finally I saw a place where there were trees and brush atop the hill. The trees were scrub oak and didn’t look like much, but they could cover a man’s approach. Shucking my rifle, I worked up the slope, weaving in and out among the trees until I reached the top of the hill. Beyond was a valley, a pretty little place, all hid away like that, with a couple of pole corrals for horses, and a lean-to, and maybe a hundred head of young stuff. I stepped down from the saddle and hunkered up against a busted-down oak tree and gave study to what lay below. There was no smoke … no movement beyond the cattle, and there were no horses in the corrals. The valley was well-watered and the graze was good … but not adequate for a hundred bead for very long. The cattle were in good shape, but I had a hunch this was just a holding place until they could be moved on. To where? A good question.
The day was warm. I was tired and so was my horse. Moreover, I was hungry. There might be food down there, but I wasn’t going to tip my hand by leaving tracks all over the place. Whoever hid those cattle here thought his hideout was unknown and secure, so I’d better leave it thataway. I gave study to the cattle. Mostly three-year-olds or younger. All of which brought me back to a thought I’d had before. Whoever was stealing cattle was not stealing them for a quick sale, but to hold and fatten. Give stock like this two to three years, even four, and they’d fatten into real money. And the chances were good that most—if not all—of this stock was unbranded.
I swore softly. I had work to do and they’d be wondering what happened to me. Moreover, my boss had been a thief himself … how did I know he wasn’t a thief now? That’s the trouble with a bad reputation, folks are always likely to be suspicious.
A thought came to me and I studied the hills around the valley with care. If this was a holding station these cattle would have to be moved, as others had probably been moved before them. So where did they go? A couple of places in the hills that surrounded the valley gave me some ideas, so I led my horse back a ways, mounted up and rode down the slope, still holding to cover and alert for any movement. The man who drove those cattle was probably long gone, but I couldn’t be sure. Keeping far out, I skirted around the hills. It took me better than an hour to get around to the other side of the valley.
But, sure enough, what I was looking for was there. A trail, probably weeks old, made by sixty to seventy head, a trail pointing off to the southeast. Obviously it was a ride of a day or more—perhaps several days—to their destination.
No use thinking of that. I had to get back. I swung my horse suddenly and at the same instant heard the sharp whap of a bullet past my skull. My spurs touched the flanks of my horse, and he was off with a bound. A good cutting-horse, he was trained to go from a standing start into a sharp burst of speed, and it was well he did, for I heard the sound of another bullet and then I was dodging behind a clump of mesquite. Circling quickly about the end, I turned at right angles and rode straightaway, knowing the rifleman would expect me to appear at the other end. Before he could adjust his aim, I was behind another clump and my horse was running flat-out.
One more shot sounded, and then I was down into an arroyo. The arroyo headed straight back for the hills where I wanted to go, and from where I’d come when trailing the cattle, but I had an idea the hidden marksman knew more about that arroyo than I did. So I watched for a way up, glimpsed a steep game trail, and put my horse up the trail and over the rim and into the rocks. Slowing down, I studied the country. Somebody had shot from cover, somebody who missed killing me only by the sudden move I’d made. Somebody who could shoot! My way led west and north, but mostly west. I rode north, putting distance between myself and the man who had been shooting, and utilizing every bit of cover I could.
It was almost midnight when I finally walked my weary horse into the yard at the line-cabin.
A low voice spoke from the door of the dark cabin. “Where did she live, amigo?
On the moon?”
Tired as I was, I chuckled. “I stumbled on some cattle moving at night. Made me sort of curious.”
“I’ve coffee on the fire.”
Fuentes struck a match and lit the coal-oil lamp. He put the chimney back in place. At the fireplace he dug a pot of beans from the coals and went to the cupboard for biscuits.
“You have something extra, amigo,” he said, looking very serious. “How many were they?”
“Who?”
“The men who shot at you.”
I had picked up the coffeepot and a cup, but now I stopped, half turning toward him. “Now how the hell would you know that?”
Fuentes shrugged a shoulder. “I do not think, amigo, that you would put bulletholes in your own hat … So I think somebody has been shooting.” I removed my hat. There was a bullet through the crown on the left side. That one had been close … very, very close!
As briefly as possible, I explained the events of the day and of the previous night, my trailing of the cattle, finding the herd of young stuff and turning away from the trail.
He chewed on a dead cigar and listened. Finally, he said, “How far away would you say? I mean, how far off was he when he shot?” I had not thought of that, but recalling the terrain and what cover there had been, I said, “Not less than three hundred yards.” “My advice, amigo, is do not wear that shirt again, not for a long time. You rode one of the Stirrup-Iron horses, so we will turn it loose. At three hundred yards he might not have recognized you. He might not even know you. So do not ride that horse again, and do not wear that shirt. You have others? If not, you may have one of mine, although I am afraid it would be tight, very tight.” That made sense, a lot of sense, for nobody could be more vulnerable than a working cowhand, riding after cattle in wild country, his mind intent on his business … And punching cows is a business that requires attention. When a roped steer hits the end of that rope, if your fingers are in the way, you have one or two less fingers. A quick turn around the horn with your rope at the wrong moment … I knew a lot of cowhands who had lost pieces of their fingers. Of course, there was every chance that whoever shot at me had known exactly who he was shooting at. If he did, there was no help for it. If he did not, we could hope to confuse him. I’d no desire to have a good shooter rimrocking me as I went about my business.
Long before daybreak we were in the saddle. It was rough country, and some of those big old steers were elusive as ghosts. We’d glimpse them in the brush, but when we got there they’d be gone.
Shortly after sunup, the wind started to blow, and the sand stung our eyes. The cattle went into the thickest brush, and we worked hard rousting them out. A long, brutal day, and at the end of it we had but three head, seven or eight-year-olds no more friendly than as many Bengal tigers. They’d stalk you along the bars and hook, if you came too close. “Seen Ol’ Brindle today,” Fuentes commented, as we walked our horses toward the cabin. “I was hoping he was dead.”