Die by the Gun Read online

  “Trouble with the men? Anything you want me to do?”

  Flowers shot him a cold look and shook his head.

  “Not the men that’s worrying me. It’s the men trailing the herd.”

  “Rustlers?” Mac sucked in his breath and looked at his revolver hanging in a holster he had won from one of the drovers in a poker game. He still didn’t have any ammunition for the .44.

  “Might be cowboys looking to join our company,” Flowers said.

  “You don’t believe that. Why not? How long have they been trailing us?”

  “I spotted them a couple days back. From the way they tried to stay out of sight, we might have had their unwanted company since leaving the ranch.”

  “My gun’s mighty hungry,” Mac said. “It’d feel better if it had a belly full of cartridges.”

  “Tell Messerschmidt to give you a box or two from our stores. You’re one of the first they’d try to rob, being out front of the herd most of the time and all by your lonesome.”

  Mac always followed Flowers as the trail boss scouted ahead for the entire herd. When he reached the spot the trail boss marked, he’d stop and prepare a meal, either midday or supper and breakfast where the herd bedded down for the night. As the cattle began their daily travels, he had to get after Flowers and repeat the routine, always leading and mostly on the trail alone unless he happened to find the trail boss.

  “Much obliged.”

  Flowers fixed him with a steely, accusing look. “You can use that hog leg, can’t you?”

  Mac didn’t answer. Anything he said would sound like bragging or worse. He might arouse Flowers’s ire if he talked of the men he had shot down. Every last one of them had deserved it—and he was innocent of the one he was accused of killing in New Orleans. It hardly seemed fair. Whatever it was, Mac knew better than to talk about it.

  “The men will get the herd here in another hour. I’m heading yonder.” Flowers waved his hat toward a range of low hills in the distance. “Once everyone’s chowed down, you skirt those hills to the south and then angle back toward me to the northwest.”

  “Is the going directly over the hills too rough for the chuckwagon?”

  Flowers nodded, distracted. He swung into the saddle and headed out.

  “You not eating?” Mac called after him.

  “Not hungry.” Flowers rubbed his belly. With that he trotted away, leaving Mac to wonder if the trail boss didn’t like his food or if the man’s stomach was hurting him. From the noises it made when he ate, his digestion was terrible.

  Mac poked through the medicinal supplies he had, hunting for something that might ease belly pain. He found a bottle of Sal Hepatica and wondered if this might help Flowers. He had other nostrums that might serve a man better who spent his day in the saddle. Flowers might enjoy life more by seeing a doctor in one of the towns they passed along the trail, though many frontier sawbones tended to be as dim as an old buffalo trail.

  Humming to himself, Mac finished the cooking just as the first of the cowboys came in. He served them up the last of the fresh food, then talked with Messerschmidt about getting a box of ammunition.

  “You thinking on starting a range war, Mac?” The man rummaged through the supply wagon until he found a box of .44s. He passed them over.

  “Thanks, Messy. Flowers suggested I keep my revolver loaded since he thinks we’re . . . getting away from the towns,” he finished lamely. Telling Messerschmidt or any of the others that Flowers believed they were being followed by a gang of rustlers would spook them needlessly. While the cowboys ought to be on guard, worrying them over a few men who might just be heading in the same direction was pointless.

  Besides, it was the trail boss’s job to talk over such problems, not the cook’s.

  “How’s he doing?” Mac didn’t have to point out Desmond Sullivan. Messerschmidt knew right away who he meant.

  “He does the work of five men.”

  “What?” This startled Mac. His eyebrows rose.

  Messerschmidt laughed.

  “What I mean, Mac, is that it takes five men to do his work after he makes a complete botch of it. He knows nothing about being a drover. He should ride along and do nothing. That would keep all of us happy, but he meddles and makes things bad.” Messerschmidt shook his head. “Flowers should never have let him come along. We must take care of the herd and ourselves and him.”

  Mac didn’t want to share what he had overheard back at the ranch and in Fort Worth. Flowers had struck the bargain of wet-nursing Desmond to keep Mercedes Sullivan from accompanying them. He wondered if he was the only one who saw how Flowers wore his heart on his sleeve for their boss lady. Flowers would walk through hell barefoot for her.

  This image caused a smile to curve his lips. If Flowers did just that, the Devil would throw him out of hell because of the stink. None of them on the drive had a chance to bathe, and some didn’t want to. In Hiram Flowers’s case, it was almost a matter of pride that he smelled worse than a stepped-on skunk.

  “Time to drive on and set up for this evening. You got any requests, Messy?” Mac held up the ammo box. “I owe you for these.”

  “You do a good job, Mac. Better than Cassidy ever did.”

  “By better you mean I haven’t poisoned anyone yet.”

  “Yeah, that.” Messerschmidt slapped him on the shoulder and went around to climb into the driver’s box of the supply wagon. He rode with the herd to get the cowboys anything they might need during the day.

  Mac finished cleaning the last of the utensils, pots and pans, packed his chuckwagon, and settled in for the drive Flowers had outlined for him. This wasn’t the first time he had taken a different route from the man riding scout. Being on horseback allowed the scout to travel faster and find better vantage points to study the lay of the land for the herd. When he had been with the Rolling J crew along the Shawnee Trail he had doubled as cook and scout, learning firsthand how difficult it was to find the right trail for a large herd.

  He whistled tunelessly as he drove his team down the slight incline and found a trail to rattle along that took him around the taller hills and finally brought him out on the far side.

  As his team struggled to pull along in sandy ground, the hair on the back of his neck rose the way it always did when he sensed someone watching him. Without being too obvious, he reached back and caught the holster swinging gently behind him. The loaded gun slid free of the leather, then was tucked securely into the waistband of his trousers. The gun had just settled in place when a solitary Indian rose from behind a tall mesquite bush and blocked his way.

  Mac drew back slowly on the reins to bring his wagon to a halt. One brave posed little threat. A quick study of the man convinced Mac he had come upon a hunter and not a war party.

  But he knew the Comanche wasn’t out on the prairie alone. He didn’t carry enough gear behind him on the pony. That meant a camp somewhere nearby. A lone Comanche had no reason to pitch camp and ride around when he carried his entire wealth with him. There would be others, perhaps a dozen or more.

  Not for the first time Mac wished he had eyes in the back of his head. He heard the horses coming up from behind where he couldn’t see them. Turning and making a show of counting them lowered his status in their eyes.

  “Howdy,” he called. “How’s hunting? I haven’t seen anything the whole livelong day but a few scrawny rabbits.” As if trying to find a more comfortable spot on the hard wooden bench seat, he moved his hand closer to the butt of his revolver.

  From the soft thuds at least four rode up from behind. At least. He sucked in his breath when two more joined the Indian blocking his way.

  The brave who had stopped him pointed to the rear of the chuckwagon. “You have food?”

  “For the men riding herd. We are moving many hundreds of longhorns. Many, many hundreds.”

  They exchanged silent looks. The other four drew rein on either side and slightly behind him to make it harder for him to open fire on them shou
ld they attack. Seven braves, six rounds in his trusty .44? He was a good shot but even assuming every round found a target, that left one hunter unscathed.

  He squinted a bit in the afternoon sun and again tried to read their painted faces. A few streaks meant decoration. And their horses lacked paint. Sometimes a war party put painted hand prints on their horses’ rumps. These needed currying and, judging by their sunken flanks, decent fodder. But he saw no indication he had run afoul of a war party.

  He let out a small self-deprecating chuckle. How stupid could he be? If they’d been a war party, they wouldn’t stop to talk. They’d ambush him and take whatever was left.

  “Cows?” the spokesman said.

  Mac nodded. “Many, many cows. Perhaps my chief would be willing to give your chief a few beeves as a show of friendship.”

  “Many, many cows?”

  “A few. In exchange for your friendship.”

  The three ahead whispered. The one speaking shook his head. Mac turned so his hand rested on the pistol. He’d go down shooting, if it came to that.

  “We hungry now.”

  “Then on the behalf of my chief, let me extend friendship now with a meal. I’ve got some food left over from my noon meal . . . for many, many cowboys.” It didn’t hurt to keep reminding them that he was alone right now but a veritable army of cowboys came along behind.

  “You feed?”

  “I will.” Mac pushed hard on the brake and looped the reins around it. As he got down from the driver’s box, he slipped his pistol from his waistband and left it on the floor. No gun, no mistakes.

  They were hungry and jumpy. Shooting his way out of a jam wasn’t possible if they got worked up. He’d had some contact with Comanches back in Waco and respected their fighting and riding skills. Talk—and a dollop of food—was the best way to avoid trouble now.

  “Step right up,” he said. “I’ll get a fire going to boil some coffee. That’ll help wash down the food.”

  Dried cow chips sent up a long, thin tendril of smoke when he got a pile of them lighted. Whether this warned Flowers or anybody with the herd of trouble, he didn’t know, but he needed the fire anyway to make the coffee. As it boiled, he set out slabs of jerky, a pot of beans, and leftover biscuits for the Indians. They held back until he sampled each in turn, then he held out the various items for them. The way they gobbled down what the cowboys would have turned up their noses at told him how hard life was for them out here.

  He stoked the fire with a few more dried cow chips. A gust of stinking gray smoke rose and got whipped around not fifty feet in the air. He only had two tin cups, but he filled those and passed them out to the Indians, who took turns gulping down his brew. The cowboys told him it tasted like varnish. The only response he got from the Comanches was a loud belch. They were so appreciative he was glad he didn’t bother putting sugar in the coffee. This served the purpose of keeping them nice and peaceable. No reason to waste a valuable commodity out here on the range when anything he gave them was considered a banquet.

  “Many, many cows?” The only one who spoke stabbed his finger in Mac’s direction.

  “Many, many cowboys herding them,” he said.

  The Comanches whispered again, then their spokesman said, “Many, many horses?”

  “Not many,” he answered slowly. For the Indians, horses were mobile wealth. They couldn’t eat or ride gold. A brave with a dozen horses was a rich man. The Circle Arrow remuda had more than fifty horses in it. Without a mount, a cowboy was worthless. Nobody walked alongside a herd of longhorns and kept up.

  “Many. You lie!” The brave swung his rifle up and pointed it at Mac.

  He remembered how he had originally considered shooting it out with them. He would die, probably get scalped, and the entire chuckwagon filled with supplies would be stolen, but a blazing six-gun would let them know they’d been in a fight. Now he stood unarmed and helpless.

  Mac raised his hands and stood to face the Comanche. The Indian cocked the hammer on his rifle and took aim.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Nice rifle. It’d be a damned shame if it got dropped in the dirt when I put a bullet through your head.”

  Hiram Flowers stepped from behind a greasewood, his Winchester trained on the Comanche with his rifle leveled at Mackenzie.

  The cook took everything in with a single sweep of his eyes across the tableau. The Indians were frozen in place, but the bore of the rifle pointed at his face looked big enough to reach down with his fist and grab the bullet.

  “You have many, many cows?” the Comanche asked.

  “That’s a crazy thing to say when you’re an inch away from having your head blowed off.” Flowers took another half step to get a better shot. He let out a curt “Stop!” when two of the Indians went to lift their rifles. None of them had six-guns that Mac saw, but all had wickedly sharp hunting knifes. Not for the first time, he regretted leaving his gun back on the chuckwagon driver’s box.

  “No ammo. Empty gun.” The Indian lifted the muzzle and pointed it at the sky. He squeezed the trigger. Mac winced as it fell on an empty chamber.

  “That’s a good thing, since you ate our food. It’s not neighborly to eat our food and then shoot the cook.” Flowers shifted his aim a bit lower but kept the rifle pointed in the general direction of the Indians across from the cooking fire.

  “This one promise cows,” the Comanche insisted. “Many, many cows.”

  Flowers snorted disgustedly. “This one doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose.”

  Mac started to protest, then held his tongue. He knew negotiating when he heard it, even if he was made out to be a fool. Better to look like a fool than to be a clever corpse.

  “I sell cattle, I don’t give them away to just anybody. But you’re friends, aren’t you? All seven of you are our friends?”

  Seven heads bobbed up and down.

  “For friends, I might be willing to give a steer. As a way to let you know how much I think of you and your hunters.”

  “Ten cows. We let you pass over Comanche land for ten.”

  “Two steers feed a passel of your tribe. How hungry are your squaws?”

  Mac saw Flowers hit the nail right on the head. Hunting was poor this year, and from the look of the Indians’ horses, they were next to be served up for dinner. The Comanche families wouldn’t be in any better shape. Two cows would feed plenty of them for a week, maybe longer.

  “Five. You go great way across Comanche land.” The Indian made a sweeping motion using his rifle. This provoked Flowers to take aim again.

  Mac fought back a laugh when he saw the Comanche jerk his rifle down, knowing he had made a mistake. To his credit, Flowers made no mention of this. It was going to be an act of charity to give even two steers to the Indians for their families because the Circle Arrow drovers had the edge with numbers and firepower. If a hunter couldn’t even load his rifle, that meant they went out to set traps and club unwary rabbits with rocks. Fighting a crew of cowboys armed to the teeth meant sure death.

  “We friends with three cows,” the spokesman bargained.

  Flowers lowered his rifle and stepped up. He held out his hand to shake. The Comanche stared at it for a moment, then grasped Flowers’s forearm. Both exchanged quick nods of agreement.

  “We’re plenty good friends now,” Flowers said. “It’s my pleasure to give my friends three cows.”

  “I’ve already given them food,” Mac pointed out.

  “Good idea giving them coffee.” Flowers sniffed as he stared at the smoking fire. The cow chips weren’t very dry.

  “Where we get cows?” the Indian wanted to know.

  “Don’t go getting so all fired anxious. The herd will come to us. Two miles. An hour’s ride.” Flowers pointed over his shoulder. “The land gets choppy, and I decided to make this a quick travel day.” This he directed at Mac.

  “I can lead them to the spot,” Mac said. “I need to set up for supper. Our friends might want to stay for more food
.”

  He saw this met with almost as much approval as Flowers giving them the cattle to avoid being harassed as they made their way to the Pecos River. It was extortion pure and simple, but he reckoned the Circle Arrow got off cheap. A few stragglers in exchange for safe passage was a good deal since those cattle were going to be the first eaten by the cowboys anyway.

  “Go with him. I’ll make sure the herd gets to the rendezvous.” Flowers shook hands again with the Indian, spun and walked away as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Mac saw the tenseness across the trail boss’s shoulders and knew he relied on his cook to keep from getting shot in the back. The one rifle might not have been loaded. That said nothing about the other six, though Mac guessed they were empty, too. The brave doing the talking carried some authority and the others deferred to him. The Comanches elected a leader of the hunt, just as they elected a war chief, so the man had his position only as long as they trusted him.

  It paid to butter him up so they’d keep the deal he made.

  “You want more coffee before I pack up?” Mac passed around the tin cups again. He considered using sugar this time, but common sense prevailed. Nothing different to show he had held back before.

  Giving reason to go back on their deal was something only a greenhorn would do. He had been on another drive and had dealt with Shawnee Indians, who weren’t that much different from the Comanche.

  When his uninvited guests finished, he tossed the tin cups into the back of the chuckwagon and closed up. Washing the cups and utensils later seemed reasonable. Get the Indians on the trail with the promise of enough beef to feed their tribe for a week or two.

  He clambered onto the driver’s box, gathered the reins, and put his foot down on the revolver in the foot well to keep it from rattling around. It took him the better part of a half hour before he reached down and snared it, getting it back into the holster. He wished he had the holster belted on, but knowing the revolver was close enough for him to grab if the need arose made him happier. If it came to a shoot-out now, he knew those six rounds might go farther than expected because the Comanches had to rely only on their knives.