IN DAYS OF OLD
“WE got ’em going!” called Jim Nabours, riding back to his men. “Keep
’em moving! Push ’em hard for the first day, so’s they’ll be tired and
sleep good. Look at them long shanks walk! I’ll bet that old dun coaster
that’s done elected hisself head leader has got horns six feet acrost,
and ef he’s ten year old he’s a hunderd. Well, anyhow, he’s on his way
north. _And-a-lay_, old Alamo!”
“He knows about as much where he’s going as we do,” said Del Williams,
whom he had addressed.
“Shore he does, and more. I come from Uvalde, where it’s plumb wild. I
was raised on squirrel and corn pone, and all the learning I got was out
the little old blue-back speller. But my pap done told me that since
Texas taken most of the earth away from Mayheeco, Uncle Sam, he’s had
about six government surveys made a-trying and a-trying to find whereat
is the one hundredth meridian, and likewise how far north is 36-30, so’s
they can tell where Texas stops at. They can’t not one of them people
agree even with hisself where either of them places is at. Them
surveyors don’t know no more’n that claybank steer. Trail? There ain’t
no trail. We’re lost from the first jump, unless’n that steer knows.
There wasn’t never no Chisholm Trail nowheres, and I can whip any man
says there was. I didn’t read of no such thing in the blue-back speller.
But I allow, give me a good North Star and a dun steer, I kin find
Aberlene ef there is ary such place.”
“Oh, we’ll find a trail,” replied the younger man. “I’m telling you,
there is a trace called the Chisholm Trail north of the Red River. You
can get to Baxter Springs that way, or to Little Rock, and I reckon to
Wichita; and Aberlene’s north of Wichita somewheres. There’s grass and
water all the way through.”
“All trails is alike to a cow man,” assented Nabours. “My pap said all
trails was begun by horse thiefs. My pap come west into Texas from
Louisianny. He come over the Trammel Trace, from the prairies west.
Injuns made that, but it didn’t get nowheres. Injuns, horse thiefs,
whisky peddlers—I reckon that’s about how the cow trails started. What
they call the Chisholm Trail runs up to the Arbuckle Mountains. That’s
where we’ll hit the reservation Indians. They’ll all want beef—and
whisky.
“There’s a road up from Santone to San Marcos and Austin, so I reckon
we’ll head up Plum Creek and strike in north over Cedar and Onion. Ef
there is a trail we’ll find it. Ef there ain’t we’ll make one. Foller
that dun steer—he knows where Aberlene is at.”
Wheeling and riding far at one side of the scattered herd, the foreman
rode to the rear, where the cows and calves were straggling on. His drag
on that side met him—Sid Collins, flap-hatted, tobacco-stained.
“Corporal,” said he, “we got more cows now’n what we had at breakfast.
They’d ought to be riding mostly on a rawhide under the cook wagon, but
that nigger says if we put ary ’nother calf in his cart he’s gwine fer
to quit right now. Milly’s so big she fill up the hull carreter; and
besides, old Sanchez and Aniter has got it plumb full of chickens.”
“Calfs, huh? Well, now, that somehow hadn’t seem to come to my mind
none, about calfs. How many new ones you got?”
“Six. Not big enough to brand, but big enough to bawl. An’ we got six
cows on the prod, follerin’ the cook cart, so’s the cook he’s afraid to
git offen the seat. Ef this here now keep up, we’ll have half the herd
in the cook cart and the other half follerin’, lookin’ for war. I most
hatter shoot one cow right now. We got to hold the remuda way back. Miss
Taisie’s behind that, even, with the other cart.”
“Tell Miss Taisie to ride front, where she belongs on her own cows,
son.”
“I segest that, but she won’t,” said the troubled cow hand.
“Does she know who’s riding point?”
“Shore! I told her.”
“And she wouldn’t come?”
“No.”
Nabours shut his lips grimly; then, as usual when in trouble, broke out
into song: “Oh, granny, will yore dog bite, dog bite, dog bite? Granny,
will yore dog bite, dog bite me?”
“Leave me shoot all them calfs, Mr. Nabours,” urged Sid Collins. “They
kain’t walk, an’ they ain’t wuth a damn. Then the cows’d behave.”
“It’s what we shore orto do,” agreed Nabours. “They hold up the herd.
But we need every critter we got. Maybe we’ll find somebody to trade ’em
to fer something.”
“Why don’t we cut back all the she-stuff an’ on’y drive steers, Mr.
Jim?”
“Because ef we left a cow or a calf on Del Sol this spring, by fall
neither’d be on our range. As well as clean it and let it take a chance
as have thieves do it for us. No, ef our calfs die, I’m going to die ’em
as fur north as I can. Yes, and ef ary one of ’em dies I’m going to run
the T.L. iron on him after he dies—and, yes, the Fishhook road brand
over that—so’s’t the buzzards’ll know whose stock they’re a-eating of!
My good Lord! . . . Oh, granny, will yore dog bite, dog bite——”
He rode on back, through the thinning dust. The two carts were still a
mile behind. He could see the white-band horse ridden by the mistress of
Del Sol.
There were sixteen men on the T.L. herd. Sixteen loved Taisie Lockhart
in sixteen ways, save for the one element of fiercely reverent loyalty.
This grizzled old foreman loved her as his child. His brows narrowed,
his grim mouth shut tight under the graying beard as he approached the
slender figure which came on, facing her great road into the unknown.
“Push on up, Miss Taisie,” called Nabours. “Yore place is at the head.
We’ll see nothing hurts ye.”
“I don’t want to ride front,” replied the girl. “You’ve got men enough
there. Who’s riding point besides Del?”
“Mr. Dan McMasters is on left point, Miss Lockhart,” said Jim Nabours
quietly.
“Oh!”
“Well, he’s been over the road north, anyways—the onliest one of us
has. He’s a cowman. So fur, I taken him fer a square man. Not that I
care a damn fer a hand’s morerls. He may be a horse thief, but jest so
he don’t steal from us I don’t care.”
“Suppose a hand did steal from us.”
“I never did hear of no such thing!”
“Jim, listen! I’ve found my trunk.”
“No! Where at?”
“Sanchez found it in the—well, the McMasters wagon that went back to
Gonzales this morning. We’ve got it in our cart now.”
Nabours looked far out over the gray and green of the landscape a long
time before he ventured speech. His face then was sad.
“I’ve knowed men shot for less,” said he at length. “But are you sure?
Do you know who done it?”
“I haven’t seen anything. I only know what Sanchez says. None of my men
stole the trunk. It meant nothing to them. The land scrip in it might
some day mean a fortune to a man who did know about such things; and he
did know it was there; and he did say that there’d be a boom in land and
cows in Texas in less than ten years, maybe five.
“Well, we Lockharts always did open our doors. We thought the world was
honest!—It’s hard for me to doubt—to doubt—him.”
Downcast, she rode on. It was long before Nabours made comment.
“Miss Taisie,” said he at last, “there can’t no man rob you and get away
with it. Us men won’t have it. After supper I’ll be back at yore camp.
I’ll have with me my left-point man. I’ll have besides my segundo and
Sanchez and six of the best hands of Del Sol.”
“What do you mean to do, Jim?”
“Mean to do? You ast that, and you a cowman, and daughter of one? I mean
to hold a court, that’s what I mean to do. What us fellows decides is
right is what’ll happen. It’ll happen soon.”
“But, Jim”—the girl was suddenly pale—“we’d have to take any—any
suspected man to Austin. And he’s a sheriff himself!”
“Austin be damned, ma’am! Likewise, sher’f be damned! Del Sol runs her
own laws. That man’s father and yores was friends—until the war. Then
they wasn’t so much, maybe. Calvin McMasters was a Yankee sympathizer.
We don’t know it wasn’t him that killed yore father. But there can’t no
man rob Burleson Lockhart’s girl and get by with it!
“We’ll try him fair,” he added. “I’d never of believed it. This shore
does hurt.”
“It hurts, Jim. He was our visitor. Did he eat—with you boys?”
“He shore et. We taken him in. He done broke the one law of this
country.”