Smoke looked at the boys. “Any of you packing guns?”
They shuffled their booted feet and exchanged sheepish glances that silently spoke volumes.
“Get your saddlebags and bedrolls and spread them out right here in front of me,” Smoke told them.
Every boy had a pistol tucked away. Smoke took the guns and gave them to Denver. “Tuck them away.” Smoke looked hard at the youngsters. “Boys, you know that out here, if you strap on a gun, that makes you a man on the spot. Now if we’re attacked, you certainly have the right to defend yourself. Your guns won’t be locked away. They’re handy if you need them. I’m going to squat down by the fire and have another cup of coffee. All of you talk this out and come up with some sort of decision. You let me know what it is.”
Smoke chewed on a biscuit and drank a cup of hot, strong coffee while he waited. Sally stayed with the hands.
Smoke’s drive foreman, Nate, broke off from the group and came over, squatting down and pouring a cup of coffee. “Boss, me and Miss Sally voted against these boys goin’ on. I think this drive is shapin’ up like trouble. But the others, they voted to go on. I reckon it’s up to you.”
Smoke shook his head. “No. If the majority voted to go on, that’s it. Finish your coffee and let’s put some miles behind us.”
There are those who paint a cattle drive as romantic and exciting. A cattle drive is just plain work. Hot, hard, dirty, dusty, muddy, often dangerous work. If it wasn’t too dry, it was too wet. If it wasn’t too hot, it was too cold. Mosquitoes could drive both man and beast half crazy. Rivers and creeks could be no more than a trickle or flooding over their banks. Water holes might be no more than caked mud. There wasn’t a damn thing romantic about it.
People have been led to believe that the man who rode at the head of the drive was the point man. Not true. That was the trail boss. The chuck wagon was to the left of the trail boss. The point men—always two—rode behind the trail boss, on the left and right of the cattle. Behind the point men rode the drovers in the swing position. Behind them were the cowboys on the flank. The remuda was just behind and outside of the left flank, with the wranglers. In the rear were the drovers who made up the drag. It was the job of the trail boss to scout ahead for water and pasture. The other cowboys rotated positions. How often that occurred sometimes depended on the disposition of the trail boss, but usually it was left up to the cowboys to equally share the good and bad positions found on any drive.
No sooner had the herd entered Wyoming than one of the point men shouted, pointing to the west. A dozen riders were coming up, trotting their horses. The riders didn’t look a bit friendly.
3
Smoke rode out to meet them, putting some distance between himself and the herd. If there was to be shooting, he didn’t want the herd stampeded. The riders pulled up and sat looking at Smoke. They were all pretty well set up, so they probably weren’t rustlers. But they all appeared sullen and Smoke didn’t take to them at all.
“We’re from the cattlemen’s association,” one finally said, after Smoke refused to be stared down. His tone indicated that was a big deal to him. Didn’t impress Smoke at all.
“Congratulations. Do you want applause?”
“Oh, we got us a real smart-mouth here, Walt,” another said.
Walt pointed a finger at Smoke. “You best button your lip, mister.”
“I wasn’t born with a button on it,” Smoke told him. “Now state your business and get out of my way. I’ve got cattle to drive.”
Nate and Shorty had left the herd, to ride up alongside the boss. While neither one was a gunslinger, they could both shuck a Colt or Remington out of leather mighty quick and they were crack shots.
“By God!” another member of the association said. “I’ll not stand for talk like that. We’re here to inspect your herd and you best just stand aside.”
“Inspect my herd for what?” Smoke asked, his right hand resting on his thigh, close to the butt of his .44.
“Been a lot of rustlin’ goin’ on,” Walt said. “You’re a stranger here, so we take a look at your cattle, whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t care if you inspect my herd. But you’ll do it while they’re moving. Now get out of the way.”
“Just who in the hell do you think you are, buddy?” another asked, belligerence in his tone.
“Smoke Jensen.”
Those among them with any sense at all made certain their hands were in plain sight and they made no quick moves. But there is always one….
“That don’t spell jack-crap to me,” a burly, unshaven man said. “I never believed nine-tenths of them stories ’bout you no way.”
“That is your option,” Smoke told him. He glanced at Shorty. “Get the herd moving. If these gentlemen want to inspect it, that’s fine with me. But they’ll do it on the move.”
“Right, boss.” Shorty wheeled his horse, took off his hat, and waved it in the air. “Head them out!” he shouted.
“You gonna sit there and let this two-bit fancy-dan gunhawk get away with this, Walt?” the loudmouth asked.
“Shut up, Baylis,” a man whispered hoarsely.
Smoke lifted the reins and walked his horse into the group, stopping by the side of Baylis. He smiled at the man. Baylis not only didn’t believe in shaving every day, he didn’t bathe much either. “What’s your problem?” Smoke asked him. “Other than having to smell your own stink, that is.”
“Baylis,” Walt said. “Close your mouth and keep it closed. I recognize the gentlemen now.”
“Jensen,” Baylis said, “I think I’ll just get off this horse and whup your butt.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Smoke pulled his hat brim lower and then sucker-punched the man. He busted Baylis smack in the mouth; the blow knocked the man out of the saddle. Baylis sprawled on the hoof-churned ground, his mouth a bloody mess.
Smoke backed his horse out of the group, stopping between Nate and Shorty. “If you gentlemen wish to ride along and inspect the herd, feel free to do so. We’ll be stopping for lunch in about an hour. You’re welcome to eat with us. And that includes the fool on the ground.”
Several of the men tried to hide their smiles.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Jensen,” Walt said. “We’ll just ride along for a time and then take you up on your most generous offer of a meal.”
Smoke nodded and he and Shorty and Nate rejoined the herd. Walt looked down at Baylis, who was hanging on to a stirrup, trying to get up. “Baylis, I always suspicioned that your mamma raised at least one fool. Now I know I was right.”
Over lunch, which was the thick rich stew sometimes called Sonofabitch Stew, with sourdough bread to sop in it, dried apple pie for dessert, and all the coffee anybody could drink, Smoke asked Walt about Clint Black.
“I never met the man, Smoke. But I know about him. Runs the biggest spread in all of Montana Territory. The Circle 45. Has maybe…depending on the time of year…anywhere from fifty to a hundred men on the payroll. You’re not taking these cattle to him, are you?”
“No. To a man named Duggan. Runs the Double D spread.”
“I never heard of him.”
“I think he’s new out here. He bought my whole herd and about a thousand from neighboring ranches. Said he wanted to get into the cattle business fast. I’ve never met him. Everything was handled through lawyers.”
“Gettin’ to be a man can’t break wind without checking first with a lawyer,” Walt grumbled.
Smoke grinned at him. He shared the same opinion of most lawyers. “Speaking of sons of bitches, have some more stew, Walt.”
Walt laughed and a new friendship was bonded.
Baylis glared at Smoke and hatred was fanned.
Walt gave Smoke a handwritten note and with it said, “You’ll have no trouble in Wyoming. Just show anyone who stops you that note and they’ll wave you right on through and help you with the drive for a time.”