Chapter 1: AN ACCIDENTAL ASSIMILATION
Wednesday, September 24th... The lone young rider was fairly confident he was heading in the general direction of Laramie, expecting at some point to intersect the stage road—which he should have followed in the first place instead of opting for the scenic route and striking out west along a wagon track crossing table-flat shortgrass prairie. That he hadn't yet done so was of no great concern. He had supplies enough to last another two or three days and there was no urgency in his journey. Not yet, anyway. Water might become problematic.
The featureless high-plains terrain had gradually given way to low rolling hills on which grew clumps of bushes and isolated groves of evergreen trees. Rocky outcrops were beginning to interrupt the wide meadows of autumn-dried grama and buffalo grasses. On the not-too-distant horizon loomed a purplish-blue elevation representing the mountain range that lay between the rider's current location and his goal. It didn't look too formidable... he'd seen much taller ones.
Although it was only midafternoon, the rider decided both he and his mount deserved an early rest—they'd been on the move since dawn. Scanning the immediate vicinity for a suitable campsite he noted a second, fainter track branching off to the north and disappearing downwards between folds in the terrain. Suspecting it would lead to a sheltered area, he followed it down an almost imperceptible slope into a wide, shallow canyon.
Perfect!
Off to one side, mature cottonwoods flourished in clumps around the perimeter of a modest lake. The upper branches of the trees rustled in what little wind could reach them. Brilliant yellow leaves spiraled onto the understory and floated on the water. The greater portion of the canyon floor was tall grass still clinging to its last tinge of seasonal greenness. Though there were no signs of current habitation, the canyon had been in use fairly recently—there were droppings and hoofprints, both domestic and game, in abundance.
Allowing the gray gelding to drink but not dismounting, the rider judged that the lake itself was a spring-fed year-round feature rather than a stagnant seasonal watershed. Its waters were clear, with minnows flashing in the shallows, chased by pan-sized crappies.
Supper waiting to be caught!
A stroke of good luck, this was, coming up on this gem affording not only water but protection from the chill autumn winds sweeping across the tableland above. Skirting the lake's eastern shore, the rider came to its run-off creek and followed it through a break in the canyon wall. Beyond lay a secondary adjunct canyon—an amphitheatre containing a catchpond. With not as many trees but plenty of grass, it was a natural containment area for livestock—as evidenced by the muddied circumference of the pond.
Retracing his path, the rider followed the western shore in search of the external water source he was sure was present. Almost back to the head of the larger canyon he was rewarded with the discovery of a rill burbling over moss-covered pebbles. There he finally dismounted and took a careful look around. Someone had once maintained a residence—a farmhold—in this idyllic spot, but no longer. A few rudimentary shelters made of salvaged barn siding were tucked away in the trees. Chimney stones that had once warmed a soddy had been rearranged and mortared into a combination firepit, grill and oven with an iron grating. Scattered stone-encircled pits with remnants of old fires told their own stories—obviously he'd stumbled across an encampment for herders.
There was no way of knowing if this was open range or private property but, as no one else was using it, probably no one would mind if he did. As well as being aesthetically pleasing, the cottonwoods provided plenty of deadfall for a welcome campfire on what promised to be a crisp night, and leaf litter underneath would no doubt yield fat fishing worms. Forage for the rider's mount was plentiful and at just the right stage—not too green, not too dry, with plump grainy heads... as the gray had already discovered. Yes... it was a good place to camp. He unhooked his canteen and squatted down to fill it.
The gelding was grazing close at hand, his trailing tie rope within arm's reach, when his head came up and his ears swiveled in the direction of the entrance to the canyon. After a moment of motionless attention, the animal let out a premonitory snuffle. The young man got to his feet, slinging the canteen on the horn and looping the rope around one hand just in case. Since departing Cheyenne he'd seen no other riders and no animals other than antelope, rabbits, sage hens and the occasional band of range cattle.
Although he himself couldn't sense anything amiss, he trusted his horse's instinct and swung aboard, prepared to make a speedy getaway if such were necessary—assuming he could. As horse and rider watched intently, a steer in a hurry appeared on the sandy trail, followed by another one and another one. The gelding quivered but made no attempt to bolt as the leader swerved to the right toward the grassy expanse. At least two dozen cattle were now streaming past in groups of three or four—all branded. And not just one brand but many different marks!
The young man held his mount fast as he tried to fathom the reason for the multiplicity of brands. A caterpillar of anxiety inched up the nape of his neck as a mounted man appeared at the top of the slope.
Rustlers!
Closing in, the new rider resolved himself into a predatory-looking black-hatted character. Pulling up several lengths away, he gave the young man the once-over. Intense eyes glittered from a grim visage darkened with sweat, dust and a two-day stubble. A black-gloved hand rested lightly on the butt of an alarmingly low-slung pistol. Not a regular cowboy's rig. Not by a long shot. Fully expecting to be grilled or drilled, the would-be camper took care to keep his face neutral and his hands in plain sight even though he wasn't wearing a gunbelt.
Instead, the man's grimy countenance creased in a friendly grin. "Got separated from your crew, didya?"
Crew? What crew?
"Well, no, actually... I..."
"Never mind... good thing ya got here early... we can use the help," the man continued. "Come on."
Come on where? Evidently he's mistaken me for someone else...
"Mister, I..."
His protest was cut off by the precipitous arrival of a second rider... bigger and broader of shoulder but with an equally ferocious expression and just as filthy. No friendly smile there. Clearly Rider Two wasn't in the mood for explanations of any sort.
"Dammit... we need to get settled before dark and we're running behind as it is. The others'll be here any minute."
The others? Good Lord... there's a gang of them?
"I'm afraid I'm not..." the young man ventured.
Rider Number One ignored him, waving dismissively at the new arrival. "Don't go gettin' your drawers in a wad. We'll have 'em penned up in no time, now we got us a helper..." He craned his head back toward the stranger. "What's yer name?"
"It's Ja..."
"Whose outfit you with?"
"I'm not actually..."
"Don't care who you belong to, kid," Number Two interrupted, pointing a finger. "Get your butt moving and get after those cows."
Kid?
The 'kid' did some fast thinking. This must be a really big and well-organized gang with multiple honchos and cadres if some members were so low on the totem pole other folks didn't even know who they were. And if no-name recruits were that unimportant, one or the other of these jokers were just as likely to shoot him for the sake of convenience rather than explore the possibility that he might not actually be a member.
Perhaps, for practicality's sake and in the interest of self-preservation, this might be a really good time to go with the flow...
"Yes, sir," the kid said meekly... but loudly enough that they both heard.
The pair peeled away at a fast walk toward the herd, which had stopped moving forward and fallen to grazing instead. The kid slotted his horse behind theirs, close enough that he could overhear their conversation as they got the cattle moving again. They were talking about him.
"You know that kid?" Number Two was asking. "He's not Triple B—all Bartlett's hands are his sons."
"Ain't Bar K neither..." Number One was agreeing. "I know all a Keogh's men."
"I heard Gantry's got a couple of new hands over at the Rocking G..." Number Two mused.
"Must be one a Livingston's boys. He's got a passel I ain't met yet..." Number One was saying as Number Two broke off with a yell, spurring his chestnut gelding after a clutch of bunch quitters attempting a sneak sortie down a side arroyo.
The kid tapped his spurless heels against his mount's sides to indicate he wanted to fill the void left by Number Two's departure. Number One continued speaking as if he hadn't noticed a substitution of audience.
"Wonder if Ezra... Mister Livingston... got that same cook as last season... that there was some fine eatin'."
The kid made a noncommittal grunt.
"You like Mexican grub?"
"Sure," the kid lied. In moderation—without the refried beans and hold the chilies.
The return of Number Two hazing the escapees back to the herd precluded further conversation for the next forty minutes. No sooner had the first batch of cattle been installed in the secondary canyon than a second and then a third group arrived along with a dozen or so drovers almost indistinguishable from Numbers One and Two in their grubbiness.
Tagging along behind, a mule-drawn chuck wagon arrived and set up under the trees near the stone firepit. The kid was aware of tightly-organized criminal operations in urban concentrations such as Seattle and San Francisco... but out here in this big empty country? He had no idea there was such a far-flung market demand for stolen beef.
A man—obviously the cook—was orchestrating supper preparations as other men were straggling in to dismount and unsaddle their horses. As each man accepted his bedroll handed down from the wagon he veered off to lay claim to a sleeping spot. Number One co-opted the kid and two other men to string ropes around a portion of the grassy area where the remuda was to be kept.
Not being an experienced cowboy or range wrangler as such, the kid failed to comprehend how a single puny rope could deter a horse if it happened to take a notion it'd rather be elsewhere. In his world, livestock were contained behind stout barriers made of stone, wood or wire. However, he kept his lack of knowledge to himself as wranglers skillfully maneuvered a small herd of remounts into the putative enclosure. These were not wild horses. Apparently they accepted the significance of anything obstructing their line of sight and respected the boundary, peacefully dropping their heads to the grass.
The rope-stringers returned to the vicinity of the chuckwagon where Numbers One and Two were dispensing assignments to men not already engaged.
"You there… what's your name…" Number Two growled, pointing at the kid and not even approaching a pleasant tone of voice. Apparently his day had not gone well. He was limping badly now that he was afoot.
"It's... Ja..." the kid started to answer but was interrupted.
"I'm putting you on second watch..."
"Okay... but when...?"
Number Two was already hobbling away, unheeding.
Number One gave the kid a rueful grin. "Don't mind him. He hadda put down a horse with a busted leg this morning. Wrenched his knee but havin' to shoot that pony hurt worse."
"I understand, sir."
"Ain't no need to 'sir' me. I work for a livin', just like you."
Except this isn't the work I usually do...
"If I was you I'd go an' get my supper an' turn in early."
Turn in? Now? It's still daylight…
The kid selected a spot somewhat removed from everyone else and dropped his gear there before insinuating himself into the chuck line. Fortunately, the cook was not Mexican but some flavor of European—from his accent, possibly Scandinavian. Supper was a rich, tasty stew—potatoes, onions and carrots with some kind of mystery meat. Antelope, maybe? Hopefully not horse. Thank goodness the chef isn't French. The biscuits were excellent. The coffee was strong and hot and there was plenty of sugar and tinned milk to go around. Cattle rustling might not be such a bad occupation after all. Unless you're caught, of course.
Cookie got a round of hurrahs upon presentation of his pièce de résistance for dessert—a splendid peach cobbler. The kid was greatly impressed. Maybe I'll wait until after breakfast to resolve the mistaken identity situation. Standing guard for a couple of hours won't kill me.
After supper, the kid rolled up in his blanket and lay there awake, wishing he hadn't lost his pocketwatch. When he'd left Cheyenne a few days ago, he'd noted that sundown occurred around seven o'clock—pretty much the same for this time of year back home, except there he'd still be up until much later. Eventually he drifted off anyway. Number One had assured him that someone would wake him up in time to relieve the first shift. That someone turned out to be the cook's helper. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the kid gratefully downed a tin cup of scalding black coffee. Upon reflection he asked the helper for a second cup to take to the guard he was relieving. Hoisting his saddle, he trudged toward the remuda, wincing as hot liquid sloshed over his hand.
The first shift guard turned out to be the man the kid privately continued to identify as Number One, since he didn't yet know his name. The man slipped down from his horse, radiating tiredness, seeming surprised that anyone would have the kindness to bring him coffee.
"Oh... thanks... 'preciate it. You can put your saddle on that gray over there." With his free hand he gestured toward four horses tethered at a picket line.
The kid refrained from commenting that in the dark all the horses appeared gray... not to mention the men.
"You're welcome. So, what am I supposed to do?"
Number One squinted suspiciously. "You're pullin' my leg, right?"
"No. What do I do?"
Number One blinked in consternation. "Nighthawk guards the horses, that's what. Circle the perimeter, keep an eye on 'em, make sure they stay inside the ropes. Stop any varmints or rustlers from gettin' at 'em."
"I guess I can do that."
Rustlers mounted guards to keep other rustlers from rustling their pre-rustled stock? Whatever happened to professional courtesy and honor among thieves?
Number One was giving him an odd look.
"Where's your rig?"
"Um... my what?"
"Your iron... your gun..."
"Oh... it's... ah... in my saddlebag? I don't usually..."
"Get it. I'll wait."
The kid returned minutes later with the unfamiliar weight of the gunbelt riding uncomfortably below his hipbones. Five pounds didn't seem like much except when it affected your balance.
Heaving his own saddle over his shoulder, Number One ambled away, shaking his head. Old Man Livingston must be losin' it, hirin' a kid that green! He paused to call back, "Someone'll take over around two o'clock."
"Okay. Thanks."
The kid dawdled until three of the ghostly horses were claimed by the other nighthawks—the cattle minders—leaving the one presumably his. When no one was looking he retrieved his own gelding from the remuda—little more than a shadowy blob in the now complete dark—and tied him to a tree out of strike range. The gray was an alpha personality, more than capable of asserting his dominance in a herd. He did not play well with others.