Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

San Saba's reply was flat, singsong. "A man playin' two hands ain't in no position to march at the head o' the parade, suh."

"Let it go—let it go. Hell's pit—what brings Gillette along so fast? I had a hundred miles less to go, I started a full week earlier. Yet here he is—here you are. What about it?"

"Suh, Major Bob is a fast traveller."

"Meaning, I suppose, I let my cattle drag all over Satan's half acre? By the beard o' Judas..."

"No, suh—no, suh. I meant nothin' like that. It's just that he makes us march like a troop o' cavalry."

"It's his cursed military style! I've heard of it before. Well, what are you doing? What about all those ideas you had? San Saba, did I not know you better I would say you broke no eggs. But I know you. Now, get busy. At this rate he'll beat me two weeks to the Little Missouri. That won't do. By the gates of Paradise, it won't do!"

"Yo'-all sent yo' men no'th to perfo'm a certain chore, Kunnel?"

"I did!"

"Is that chore done?"

"How am I to know? Neither man can write a letter. I presume they did. They understood exactly what I meant, and they're old hands. Even so, supposing Gillette beats me to the spot and finds my men on it where his men should be? Think he'll take it like a Sunday-school preacher? I'll be eternally fried in mutton grease if he will! He'll shoot my men and—there you are! I have got to get there first! You start your part."

"Oh, I'll delay the Circle G, suh. Don't worry. Plenty of time yet. You know Major Bob, pers'n'lly, Kunnel?"

"Met him once in Austin."

"He's a hard man, suh. He has a son, suh." Here San Saba's words grew drier. "A son like the name."

Wyatt grunted. "I recognize the qualities of the name. But once I get my outfit established on that particular piece of range St Peter's own crowbar won't pry me loose!" The Colonel slapped his hands together, and by that token San Saba knew the interview was over. Climbing into the saddle, he followed Wyatt back to the circle of light. Somebody had been telling a yarn, but it stopped as the Circle G foreman came within hearing, and nothing more was said. San Saba appeared on the point of speaking. Whatever the sentiment, it fell back from the barrier of his thin, tight-pressed lips. Gathering his reins, he turned about.

Hoofs thudded across the prairie. San Saba's head came up quickly and he put a spur into the flanks of his animal. But before he could get again into the concealment of the night a rider slid in front of him, blocked his path, and he had to pull aside. Colonel Wyatt planted his feet apart, grumbling.

"Lorena, where in the name of the Twelve Apostles have you been?"

It was a girl—a girl on that vague border across which lie womanhood. Her face, revealed by the reluctant firelight formed a small oval; her cheeks were pink where the night air had touched them, her eyes sparkled, catching flame from the chuck- wagon blaze. And that was about all of the feminine about her, for her small body was encased in the clothing of a man, she wore a man's boots and a man's broad-brimmed hat, beneath which strayed a wisp of black hair. The bright beads of her gauntlets glittered as she sprang from the saddle.

"Why, I've been to Ogallala. Do you think I'd go through Nebraska and not see Ogallala?" Then her eyes discovered and recognized San Saba, and all the gay exuberance vanished. Standing between her father and the Circle G foreman she turned first to one and then the other.

"Now what's the trouble?"

"Trouble?" echoed her father. "There's no trouble."

"Then what's this man doing here?" she insisted.

"Why, San Saba, he dropped in to pay a friendly call."

Her boot heel sank into the sandy earth. "Friendly? What friends has he got here?" And, turning toward San Saba, she threw up her chin, crying, "Get out of here you—renegade."

Colonel Wyatt roared, "Lorena, you talk like a lady!"

"Pop, don't call me a lady. It sounds ridiculous. Get out, San Saba!"

San Saba looked over her head to Wyatt. "One more thing, suh," spoke he in a level voice, "you better stay west of the trail a few days. I reckon yo' understan' why." Removing his hat, he bowed to the girl, swung, and galloped off.

"Notion to tan your back," grumbled Wyatt,

But Lorena was smiling again, smiling and humming a tune. She turned out her horse, threw her saddle to the ground, and prepared to climb inside the wagon that was her home on the long trail. "Don't you try it, Pop," she called back. "You'd lose a good cow hand—and you can't afford that. Good-night. I've got some questions to ask in the morning."

By the light of the waning stars the Diamond W was under way. It was an earlier start than Colonel Wyatt usually made. He, despite his impatient spirit, had not the faculty of whipping his men through the preliminary chores or of overriding the unending series of petty obstacles always lying athwart a cattle drive. Nor, for that matter, did he have enough men. Counting himself and his daughter, there were but eight in the party. But the interview with San Saba had warned him to be up and doing; thus, sunrise found the herd well away from Ogallala and somewhat west of the main trail. Colonel Wyatt and Lorena rode to the fore, on point, while the rest of the crew were strung out behind. Nineteen hundred cattle wound northward to Dakota's greener, lusher grass.

From time to time Colonel Wyatt threw a covert glance across the prairie toward his daughter. She was a splendid horsewoman, her slight and supple figure swaying easily in the saddle; now and then, when a steer broke from the herd, she swung her pony on its heels and hazed the steer back to the main body in swift, darting moves, dust rising around her, bandana whipping out. On these particular occasions Colonel Wyatt felt proud of his handiwork. He had raised her as he would have raised a boy, he had talked to her in the rough, shoulder-to-shoulder manner he would have talked to any other man, sparing few words. It was his boast that she equalled any puncher he had ever hired. And when he saw her streaking across the ground as if she were a part of the pony, or when he saw her drop her loop over a cow and send the animal to the earth a-bellowing, he understood her very well. She had his blood, his recklessness, she had his love of life; at such moments it blazed from her dark eyes, it betrayed itself in the manner she held her nether lip between her teeth.

But there were other times when she was utterly fathomless, when for hours she rode with her glance fixed on the horizon, never speaking, never changing expression. This mood made Colonel Wyatt quite uncomfortable and incompetent. Invariably it caused him to make excuses for the training he had given her. After all, it took a mother to raise a girl—and a mother she had owned only for her first four years. She was a woman now—the Colonel had discovered it only recently and with mixed emotions—and what did a woman think about, living and riding with men, day after day, year after year?

Glancing in her direction again he saw she was restless. And presently he pulled his wits together and prepared for a bad five minutes. Her gauntlet swung upward, beckoning a man to close in and take her place.

"Hell's pit!" muttered Wyait. "By the body o' Judas!"

She made a wide circle around the head of the herd, charging upon the Colonel. Her pony sat on its haunches, pivoted; Lorena's voice stabbed through the dust, and the Colonel, hearing how crisply those words fell across the intervening space, knew she was on the warpath.

"What did San Saba want?"

"Want—want? Why, girl, I told you he come on a friendly visit!"

"Pop—don't lie. Keep your fish stories for business deals."

"Lorena—I got a mind to tan your britches! Are you saying I'm crooked with my tongue?"