Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

It was on the following morning that Tom, high on a ridge, saw a small herd of buffalo feeding quietly in the plain. Turning, he raced down upon the outfit.

"Fresh meat," he called. "Buffalo boudins."

Major Bob slackened pace. "San Saba—Quagmire, go along. Tom, better take Mr. Lispenard for the excitement."

The quartette assembled and galloped back up the ridge. "Hold on," said Tom. "The wind's quartering away from us. We'll swing into that ravine."

Doubling back, they crossed the ridge farther down and got below the surface of the plain. Rifles came out of their boots. Lispenard's eyes snapped. "What now?"

"Stick with me," adjured Tom. "We could bring down meat by squatting here and taking a long shot. But it's your party, so we'll ride among 'em. Stick with me. Pick a bull and follow him down. Ready?"

The cavalcade gathered reins and shot out of the depression. Three hundred yards off the buffalo grazed peacefully. But as the hunters came to view their heads came up and immediately they raced away. Quagmire's horse forged ahead. San Saba veered slightly and lost some ground. Tom and Lispenard pounded on, gathering up the interval. Quagmire was riding like an Indian, and his pony flung itself directly into a breach of the herd. The puncher's bull-frog voice roared across the prairie, and his lithe body bent far in the saddle.

Lispenard seemed to find a road for himself, and Tom, aiming at a piece of open ground, shot alongside a shaggy bull. He was, of a sudden, in the midst of confusion, dust all about him. A rifle cracked at his side, and he heard Quagmire yelling again. Giving his pony loose rein, he brought up his gun and took a fleeting aim. But he never pulled the trigger. Another shot sang through the pounding, bellowing melee; his horse stumbled, went down, heels over head. Tom, wrenching himself clear, fell ten yards away. The herd roared by, sand sprayed in his face, and though the wind was out of him, he tried to find his gun. In a moment it was all over. Crawling to his feet, he saw the herd galloping westward, Lispenard still in pursuit and losing ground. Quagmire was coming back; San Saba had already dismounted and was using his knife on a carcass.

"Gopher hole?" asked Quagmire, dropping from the saddle.

Tom stood by the dead horse. Blood welled out of a bullet hole just above the shoulder, and Quagmire studied it with an absolutely impassive countenance. After a time his shrewd eyes rose, and it seemed to Tom that the heat of some internal fire warmed them.

"Call it a stray shot," said Tom briefly. "The dust was high."

"Yeah—call it that," agreed Quagmire. In a lower tone he added, "I allus did say that one-eyed steer ort to be killed. They's trouble makers enough in this outfit without him." And he turned to skin his game. San Saba had nothing to say. Silently they packed the choice meat in the hides and rode back to camp, Tom doubling up behind Quagmire.

Five days later the Circle G lay on the north side of the South Platte, camped outside of Ogallala. They were seventeen days from Dodge, they had suffered no disaster, and now the lights of a far-famed rendezvous beckoned. Half of the crew rode in to see the sights, and foremost went San Saba and Lispenard. Friendship of a kind had sprung up between them, and straight to the first saloon they aimed. The Blond Giant, seizing the bottle from the barkeep with swift eagerness, poured, saluting San Saba.

"Now, my lad, do you remember the way to camp?"

San Saba nodded. "Reckon."

"Then don't forget it. When I finish here you'll have to carry me back. Happy days! I'm blotting out two weeks of dry misery!"

San Saba drank slowly, rolling the liquor around his tongue. And with each subsequent glass his gravity increased and the red pall in his eyes grew the more pronounced. He threw his shoulders back, went through every motion with preciseness. As for Lispenard, he was lost to these niceties. He swallowed the whisky, pony after pony; his fist pounded the bar, his eyes rolled and flashed wildly. San Saba studied him like a judge. After a long interval he leaned forward, speaking impressively.

"My mammy was a Kentucky belle. My pappy was a Virginny kunnel."

"Let their bones rest," said the Blond Giant.

"Suh," proceeded San Saba, "I am the son of quality. And I know quality when I see it. Yo' are like me, damnably like me."

"We will christen that statement. San Saba, I see the devil hidin' in your eyes. You're an unregenerate piece of humanity. I'll bet you're the man that drank rattlesnake juice and liked it."

San Saba's face relaxed and he smiled, a sparing smile that never reached his eyes nor parted his thin lips. "I see yo' got a little more intelligence than ordinary." And when he saw Lispenard's head droop in weakness he said something more. "It takes a dam' rascal to know another dam' rascal."

"Wha' that?"

San Saba shrugged his narrow shoulders, seeming to weigh his partner. Casually, he looked about the room. Almost immediately his attention was affixed to a far corner where a paunchy, middle-aged man with dead white hair happened to be standing. Their eyes met; the elderly man nodded his head, and San Saba, glancing around to see if he was observed, returned the nod and walked out of the saloon. At the next alley he paused, retreating into the shadows. Presently the elder man marched out and followed. San Saba's arm reached out and arrested him.

"Where's yo' camp, Kunnel Wyatt?"

"West three miles. San Saba, why the devil are you here? I thought you agreed to keep Gillette back on the trail."

"Time enough yet. Go on, suh. My boys are in town. Don' want any to see me with yo'. I'll follow yo' to camp."

They separated. San Saba returned to the saloon door. Lispenard was in a poker game, in the process of being professionally trimmed. San Saba went to his horse and, keeping to the shadows, rode out of Ogallala westward.

Table of Contents

Twice during the short ride from town San Saba swung off his trail, back-tracked a hundred yards, and listened for the sound of pursuit; and when the chuck-wagon fire of the Wyatt outfit winked across the prairie he again hesitated, seeming to weigh his inclinations. Whatever this man's actions and thoughts, he consistently surrounded himself with a wall of caution. He liked to stay in the shadows; he never rode boldly into a camp, but, as at present, stalked and circled until he was sure of what he was to find. He possessed all the caginess of an animal that once had been trapped—he perpetually looked back over his trail, no matter where or when he rode. By nature he was a taciturn, isolated creature, seldom speaking a blunt or decisive word. He talked as he moved, warily, never giving another man more than a hint of what went on in that little nutshell head.

Thus, when a few paces from the firelight, he paused to scan the faces he saw. He knew those fellows, he recognized Wyatt's paunchy figure standing by the flame. But not until he had thus covered the group did he expose himself to the light Wyatt threw up his grizzled mane, speaking impatiently. "What took you so long?" A scattered greeting rose from the recumbent punchers.

"It's San Saba, by Joe. Cornin' back fer to work this brand again, Red?"

"Well, if it ain't the same smilin', sunny gent. Ain't yo' pritty far no'th?"

There was little enough warmth in the reception. These men had worked with San Saba, and they knew him. San Saba nodded his head; a brief, sparing smile flitted across his lips. "Howdy, boys. Diamond W looks both f'miliar an' prosp'rous. Kunnel Wyatt, suh, if yo' will step away a minute..."

San Saba retreated beyond earshot of the crew and slipped from the saddle. Wyatt followed, still impatient. "God's Kingdom, man, will you ever quit burrowin' like a groundhog?"