Die by the Gun Read online

  So many problems to avoid, so many things to worry about.

  No wonder his belly hurt so often.

  Hiram Flowers lifted an arm high over his head, then lowered it like a cavalry general ordering a full charge of his horse soldiers. The cowboys began shouting, using their whips and crowding the cattle on the edges of the herd toward a single spot on the bank. The cattle protested, then started a slow walk into the water.

  The first of the beeves got caught by the rush of the current. Flowers wanted to go out and make sure they didn’t take the easy route and let the water carry them off to drown. But the Circle Arrow crew knew their jobs. They worked to do what he could never do as a solitary rider.

  Flowers watched the steady stream of cattle enter the Pecos and swim their way across the raging river. Runoff had been extreme this year. He was glad to cross here and not farther north near the headwaters. If he had been that far north in New Mexico Territory he would have passed Fort Sumner and headed for Santa Fe instead. The decision to try to sell part of the herd at Fort Sumner had come to him in a dream of starving soldiers and Indians, now departed from Bosque Redondo, begging for beef. The more head he sold to the Army, the fewer he had to drive northward another couple hundred miles.

  Back and forth he rode, keeping the cattle moving, having cowboys double up when necessary. As Mac drove the chuckwagon forward, Flowers waved it on. Desmond sat beside Mac, glowering. Flowers ignored the boy and studied the floats tied on both sides of the wagon. They were needed to keep the wagon from sinking. Mac had used tarpaulins to waterproof the interior the best he could. While the chuckwagon wasn’t a real boat, it came close enough for the time it would take to make the crossing.

  A sudden protest from a cow nearby forced him to help get the animal into the water. Some weren’t happy but went with the rest of the herd. The ones that panicked made the ford the most dangerous, not only for themselves but for the riders. It took Flowers a few minutes to get the balky cow moving. He followed it until it had to swim, then started to return to the bank to urge the remainder of the herd across.

  That’s when he heard a loud shout. He jerked around to see the chuckwagon listing heavily to the side, shipping water as a huge wave broke over it. He started into the swollen stream to help, then saw a more immediate worry. Mac had been washed over the side of the chuckwagon and was being swept downstream in the middle of the river.

  Mac held his arm up and waved it around, showing he was still alive. And then another wave rose over him and pushed him underwater.

  CHAPTER 12

  “You can’t make me go.” Desmond Sullivan had crossed his arms and thrust out his chin defiantly as he faced Mac a short time earlier.

  “What’d I tell you about leading with your chin? Tuck it in or I’ll plant a right jab on the point, knock you out, load you in the wagon, and go.”

  “Come on, then. Let’s duke it out.” Desmond shifted his weight and put up his fists, ready to fight.

  Mac looked around. The cowboys cracked their whips and got the herd moving. Flowers had told him to get across the Pecos as quickly as he could. From their scouting yesterday, Mac knew the floats on the side of the chuckwagon might not be enough to keep it bobbing on top of the water. He had used a tarp to line the bottom of the wagon bed, turning it into a boat.

  At least, he hoped it would be watertight enough to serve as a boat. The trick would be to get over to the far bank as fast as possible and not tempt fate.

  “I don’t have time to play around,” he told Desmond, ignoring the young man’s pugilistic stance. He cinched the last of the belly straps on the team and went to climb onto the driver’s box.

  “I ain’t playing. This is for real. You gonna fight me or not?”

  “Look at that, will you?” Mac pointed into the air just behind Desmond. As the young man turned to look, Mac stepped up, grabbed his right wrist, and twisted back hard. Then he leaned into the grip until Desmond cried out in pain.

  “Here are your choices,” Mac said coldly. “I can break your arm and leave you behind to get home any way you can. Don’t expect Flowers to give you a horse.”

  “You killed my horse!”

  Mac ignored him, applied a little more pressure, and shut Desmond’s mouth with a new jab of pain.

  “You can go on home with a broken arm. Tell your ma whatever story you like. Make yourself out to be the hero. I don’t care. Or you can head south and vanish into Mexico. There’s plenty of opportunity down there, I hear.” Desmond squirmed. Mac did not loosen his hold. “The last choice is the one I’d take, if I were you. What might that be? Do you know?”

  “G-get onto the driver’s box.”

  “You’re not as dumb as you act.” Mac released him. Desmond clutched his tortured wrist while Mac pulled himself up onto the seat.

  “You busted a bone,” Desmond accused him.

  “No, I didn’t, since nothing snapped. Come on up.” Mac reached out to help his unwilling assistant climb onto the box. Desmond ignored the outstretched hand. That suited Mac just fine. He had work to do, and crossing the river required every bit of concentration he had.

  Once Desmond was on the seat beside him, he snapped the reins and got the team moving. By the time he reached the river a quarter of the herd had dipped their noses in. He had to laugh at the sight of so many longhorns in the water.

  “What’s so damn funny?” Desmond asked sullenly.

  “They look like a hundred rocking chairs floating across. I’ve never seen anything like that before.” Mac drove a bit downriver from where the herd waded in.

  This close, the sight of what he was facing made Mac swallow hard. The Pecos ran deep and swift. The strongest cattle led the way. The rest followed, too stupid to consider that they might never make it.

  Mac, on the other hand, knew what the chances were. They were good because of the preparations. Bad because of the river’s depth and the strength of its flow. He refrained from checking the floats on either side of the chuckwagon. Having Desmond riding with him didn’t make him any braver, but it caused him to think about showing any concern. Besides, what more could he do to prepare for the crossing now?

  He called out to the team and used the reins to drive the horses forward. They balked when they got chest deep in the river. Slapping the lines on their backs and shouting at the top of his lungs got them swimming.

  The chuckwagon lurched as the current caught it sideways. He kept the horses pulling. This kept the wagon directly behind and held the force of the water at bay.

  Everything went well until they were three-quarters of the way across. Then one of the wheels hit a sandbar. The chuckwagon canted to one side and let the water surge underneath, lifting it up.

  “Pull! Keep going!” Mac jumped to his feet to better use the reins. As he stood the wagon tilted precariously.

  He tried to take a step to keep his balance. His feet got tangled up together, forcing him to twist to the side. A wave hit the wagon and a giant watery hand lifted. Mac cried out as he flew through the air. The wet leather reins slid from his grip. He hit the edge of the driver’s box, spun around because of the swirling water and then felt as if he had lost all weight. He was caught by the river and carried away from the chuckwagon.

  “Get it on to shore!” he yelled at Desmond as he waved an arm. “The wagon. Get it—” He sputtered as he was pulled under.

  The last thing he saw was the chuckwagon leaning precariously, Desmond shifting his weight in the other direction to counter it. Whether or not it capsized, he couldn’t tell because muddy, filthy water filled his eyes and nose and mouth, blinding and choking him.

  For a moment he fought the river’s power, struggling so hard his arms went limp from the effort. But Mac refused to give up. To panic now meant certain death. He relaxed and let the current carry him along. He bobbed to the surface, sucked in a couple of quick breaths, and then was pulled back under.

  He twisted and turned, prisoner to the river. Something ba
nged against his arm. He grabbed it and hung on for dear life. The added buoyancy took him back to the surface where he saw he had seized a large tree limb. Using it as a float, he kicked hard and angled toward the shore. The tumult had scrambled his brains enough that he didn’t know which side of the river was in front of him. Either promised safety.

  He kicked and tried to swim but weakened fast. His wet clothes weighed him down. The revolver at his hip added another three pounds of iron he had to support. The wild notion of getting free of the gun belt flashed through his mind, but he rejected it immediately. His pa had given him that S&W. Lose it and he sacrificed the last thread connecting him to his family, to Missouri, to his life growing up. He kicked and dog paddled as hard as he could. The shore wasn’t more than ten yards away. Close.

  “I can make it. I can.”

  He couldn’t. He surrendered more and more to the power of the river, and it wanted to sweep him downstream. Eventually he would wash up on the shore, but he would never know. He’d be dead.

  “No, no, no,” he spat out. His words bubbled as his head went underwater. He reached up.

  A scream of pain ripped from his lips as it felt like his arm was being pulled out of joint. He fought, only to spin around and around, his arm the axle. The pain mounted in his shoulder until he quit fighting and let the new force drag him along. As he was pulled up facedown on the muddy bank, he saw the horsehair rope looped around his wrist. As he had reached up, someone had lassoed him and used this to pull him ashore.

  “St-stop. You’re d-draggin’ me.” He failed to get his feet under him and could hardly make a sound because of exhaustion and the mud coating his face. But his rescuer realized the danger from drowning was past and let the rope go slack.

  The rope slid from his wrist. Forcing himself to sit up, he wiped mud from his eyes and saw about the prettiest sight he’d ever seen. Astride his horse sat Hiram Flowers.

  “You make a lousy doggie, Mackenzie. Roping you was too easy. I don’t even want to think about hogtying and branding you.”

  “I’m not going back out there to give you a fight.” Mac tried to stand. His legs refused. He sat back down and wiped more mud from his face.

  “I saw you get washed out of the chuckwagon. That wave was twice the height of the wagon.”

  “Desmond! He was in the wagon. Where is he?” Concern powered Mac to his feet. He took a few tentative steps back toward the river. “I don’t see him. There’s no sign of Desmond or the chuckwagon.”

  “Can’t tell if they got swept downriver. I was concentrating on getting you out of the drink.”

  “Give me a hand up.” Mac reached up for Flowers to hoist him behind. The trail boss hesitated, then pulled him up.

  “Damn, boy, but you’re filthy from the river. I thought bathing was supposed to get you all clean.”

  “How’d you know?” Mac shot back. “You haven’t had a bath in a month of Sundays.”

  “That’s because I spend all my time around cattle. It’s months past dipping time to get the ticks off them, so why bother sticking myself in water?”

  “There!” Mac almost fell from the horse as he pointed. “That’s a float from the wagon.”

  Flowers rode to where the crude pontoon was caught in some weeds. The rope holding it to the chuckwagon had been frayed, dragged repeatedly against the side of the wagon by the rise and fall of the river until it came free.

  “There’s no wreckage I can see.” Flowers put his hand over his eyes as he peered into the rising sun.

  “If the wagon went straight to the bottom, we might salvage it. If it got washed away, everything inside will be strewn along the river for miles and miles.”

  “We’ll have to search,” Flowers said.

  “For Desmond’s body,” Mac finished. He felt beaten and battered by the river. Adding to that rose a sense of guilt. He should have taken better care of Desmond. The boy was a greenhorn on the trail, ornery and arrogant, but he never should have died the way he did. That was entirely Mac’s fault. He should have looked after him better, and the chuckwagon with all their vittles, all their utensils—and maybe worst of all if there had been injuries—all their medical supplies.

  “Kleingeld got across with the rest of the gear,” Flowers said. “I see him waving.”

  “I should hunt for Desmond.”

  “You should stop blaming yourself. I told you to watch him. It’s my fault he got into trouble out there. I knew he wasn’t a trail hand. Hell, I should have made sure he had floats on him like the wagon. I don’t even know if he could swim.”

  “Wouldn’t matter much,” Mac said. “The current’s too powerful to fight for very long. If you hadn’t roped me when you did, I’d be no better than one of those dead limbs sailing down the river.”

  “Shut your yap and save your strength. We’ve got the rest of the herd to get across the river. I knew it’d be tough goin’. I expected to lose upward of a quarter of the herd, but I hoped we wouldn’t come up short because of men drowning.” Flowers swallowed hard. Mac rode with his arms around the man’s waist and felt him quaking. Losing Desmond hit him as hard as it did himself.

  Flowers rode slowly up a rise to look down on the mud flats where the cattle filed past, wet and angry at being forced to endure such indignity. Kleingeld had parked his wagon a hundred yards inland from the river and worked to get what looked like half the river drained from the wagon bed. A couple of cowboys helped him.

  Flowers suddenly reared back and almost knocked Mac from behind him.

  “What is it?” Mac looked around the trail boss. His eyes went wide. He shook his head in disbelief and said, “That can’t be. It just can’t.”

  “Reckon you’re wrong, Mac. It is.” Flowers put his heels to his horse’s flanks and galloped down to the riverbank, dodging cattle the entire way.

  CHAPTER 13

  “It’s hardly dawn,” Desmond had complained as the river crossing got underway. “There’s no reason to ford the river this early.”

  Beside Desmond on the box, Mac had never twitched, never showed any sign he heard. Desmond started to poke him, then decided against it and settled down in a pile of dejection. Nothing ever went his way. The world kicked him in the teeth at every turn. Nothing he did was right or good enough. Flowers rode him constantly, and his ma ignored him, but at least she was better than his pa. Everybody worshipped the old man like he was some kind of saint. Desmond knew different. Zeke Sullivan had poked fun at him every chance he got.

  Desmond yelped when the chuckwagon hit a rock and almost sent him sailing from the driver’s box.

  “You did that on purpose,” Desmond protested, his accusation falling on deaf ears. Mac looked straight ahead. The roar of the river, its putrid, decaying smell, spray rising up to reach inland, occupied him more than answering the complaint. Nobody ever listened to Desmond. Nobody, and especially not a lowly cook, should boss him around like that.

  “Hang on. We’re going across.”

  “I don’t want to go,” Desmond said, staring at the choppy water of the Pecos. Logs the size of the chuckwagon tumbled in the dark, churning water. To ford here was crazy. It was sure death.

  “Hop off if you want. This is your last chance. But I can use the help getting across.”

  “What? How?” Desmond looked at the cook, sure he was poking cruel fun at him.

  “I’m going to be driving and won’t be able to shift around to keep the chuckwagon from capsizing. You need to stand up, move your weight in the direction opposite that caused by the river. Keep us from turning over. Can you do that?”

  “I . . . yes.” Desmond doubted this was actually any kind of a job. It sounded stupid.

  Then the team began pulling and got caught by the rush of the powerful current. Mac kept them moving with the wagon directly behind the horses. Desmond saw that the river wanted to spin the wagon around the tongue. If that happened the team would break free, and the wagon would be swept away, powerless against the flood.
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  He let out a yelp as the wagon tipped. The floats on the downriver side submerged and the upriver ones rose from the water. Desmond realized this was what Mac wanted from him. He jumped up and grabbed the brace immediately behind the driver’s bench. Applying all his strength, he leaned into it. He thought he wasn’t having any effect.

  “That’s the ticket. You’re doing just fine,” Mac shouted over the roar of the river.

  Desmond thought he was taunting him. Mac never passed up a chance at sarcasm. Then Desmond felt the wagon tipping back. The floats on both sides dipped down into the water. He’d righted the wagon.

  “We’re halfway across. We’re going to make it.” Mac bent back, tugging hard on the reins to turn the horses toward a spot on the far bank off at an angle. They tired fast, fighting the current. He aimed them for a spot they could reach without exerting themselves as much.

  Desmond had to jump up and lean into the wagon again. It righted fast, almost throwing him out into the river. He collapsed to the seat. His clothing clung to his body, as wet from the river spray as from sweat. Exerting every ounce of energy was taking it out of him. He saw that Mac’s face was pale and drawn with strain. The cook fought the team every inch of the way, and it drained him.

  A smirk came to Desmond’s lips. So the great Dewey Mackenzie wasn’t so great after all. He got tired and scared like everybody else.

  “Help me. Take the reins. My hands are cramped up.” Mac held out the leather straps. Desmond took them without realizing he did so.

  The sudden jerk almost tore his arms from his shoulder joints. He shoved out his feet against sodden wood and pulled for all he was worth. The team began to move in the right direction, at an angle, through the river.