The Chuckwagon Trail Page 7

  Mac left with Carson, wondering if he had made the worst mistake of his life . . . until he saw Leclerc’s bully boy across the street passing out the posters.

  CHAPTER 8

  “You say we’re heading out at dawn?” Mac looked at his pocket watch. After all it had been through, he was surprised it still worked.

  Carson peered over his shoulder, then produced his own watch and held it out.

  “You’re three hours and a few minutes off. There’s no time for you to get it to a watchmaker for repair.”

  “But at dawn, we’re off?” Mac shifted to stand a little behind the trail boss so Leclerc’s henchman wouldn’t spot him. How had the bruiser ever found him? Or was he only hitting the likeliest spots? Why Waco? Was Leclerc willing to send an army of men throughout the state to find him?

  “We go to the Rolling J, get you settled in today, make sure you have all the supplies you’ll need, then we head out on the Shawnee Trail tomorrow.”

  “Not in a few hours?” Mac watched the man across the street go into a saloon.

  “You surely are eager to hit the trail. I wish all the boys were. Some of them are downright lazy oafs. I’ve been thinking of taking along a blacksnake whip just for them instead of the shorter ones for use on the cattle.”

  “You whip the cows?”

  “Longhorns are ugly, nasty critters, but the cowboys use the whips to keep them moving, not beat them. You are a greenhorn, aren’t you? Come on. It’s time to get out to the ranch.”

  “I don’t have a horse. How long a walk is it?”

  “I’ve got a buggy. We can ride in style.”

  “I need to tell Benbow I’m not going to show up for work.”

  Carson chuckled.

  “That old miser’ll have a devil of a time finding anyone to work for what he offers, but I appreciate it that you’ll tell him, in spite of the way he’s used you so hard these past few days.”

  “He did stand me for a bath and dinner at Sadie’s. Where’s the buggy?”

  “I’ll bring it on around. By the time I get there, you’ll have given Benbow notice. Glad to have you working for the Rolling J.” Carson slapped him on the back, then limped off into the dark.

  Mac wasted no time getting to the stables and finding his employer—his former employer. He took a quick look at the horses in the stalls. A stallion he had not seen earlier shifted from one side to the other, as nervous as if it faced a rattler.

  “That the horse of a big bruiser?” Mac asked. “A man with a mashed nose and ears that look like worms got to them?”

  “It is,” Benbow said, “and you’ve come to tell me you ain’t gonna take care of it.”

  “Or any of the others.” Mac saw that his former boss had already heard through the grapevine how Carson had recruited him. He was glad now he had come personally to tell Benbow. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention me to that horse’s owner.”

  “He looked to be a hard case. You in trouble with him?”

  “He’s one reason I’m broke,” Mac explained. “He doesn’t believe I don’t have two nickels to rub together and is more than willing to take it out of my hide. The last time our paths crossed, he tried to kill me.”

  “He had the look of a man used to doing that for no reason other than he enjoyed seeing blood spill.” Benbow nodded sagely. “You done right by me, Mac. I won’t mention you to him.”

  “No matter what? No matter what he says or does?”

  “Sid Jefferson’s a good customer. If I peached on a Rolling J employee, he might take it into his head to use another stable.”

  “Thanks, and there’s Lem now with my ride out to the ranch.”

  “You don’t go poisoning any of them cowboys, you hear?”

  Mac grinned, hoping Benbow kept his word and that the Rolling J herd got on the trail fast. Once headed north, along the Shawnee Trail Carson had mentioned, the sooner he could lose any pursuit. He went out and swung up into the buggy. His weight caused that side to sag. He realized then how light the trail boss was.

  “It’s an hour out to the ranch,” Lem Carson said. And it was, almost exactly to the minute.

  * * *

  Mac slept better than he had in a month. The bunkhouse was warm, and the bed had a real mattress. Better yet, he didn’t have to sleep with one eye open, worrying about who was catching up with him. Let Leclerc send his men throughout the country. On the Rolling J, surrounded by four dozen cowboys, Dewey Mackenzie was safe as could be.

  He came awake with a start when a hand shook his shoulder.

  “It’ll be dawn in an hour. You got to get outfitted and ready for the trail.”

  Mac blinked his tired eyes and saw Lem Carson standing over him. Beside Carson, a short man with a Colt slung on his hip peered down at him with eyes that cut through any pretense and sliced away at his soul. The fierce look faded a mite when he smiled. The man had a gold front tooth to go along with weathered features, jug-handle ears, and a tuft of silvery beard on his squarish chin.

  “This here’s Patrick Flagg. He’ll make sure you find where everything’s hid and get you a team for the chuckwagon. I got to roust the others. Don’t make me come back to get him out of the bunk.” With that Carson vanished.

  Mac wondered who the last warning was aimed at, him or Flagg. He swung his legs around and let his feet touch the cold wood planking. A shiver passed through him; then he pulled on his socks and boots. As he did so, Flagg pulled Mac’s pistol from its holster and studied it. After a moment, the man held it up.

  “Smith & Wesson Model 3,” he said in a slow, raspy voice. “This ain’t a Russian model, is it?”

  “Nope, pure American. What some folks are calling a Schofield, though I never heard my pa call it that.”

  “He give it to you?” Flagg broke the gun open, checked the cartridges, spun the cylinder, looked down the barrel, gave the weapon a thorough going over. “This has been through rough times lately. You need to oil it.”

  “It has been a long trail, and you’re right. Only I don’t have any gun oil.”

  “Rattler does. Ask him. He’s as close to a gunsmith as we got on the Rolling J.”

  “Rattler? You call him that because he looks like a prairie rattler?”

  “He was bit by a diamondback. Terrible case of poisoning. Worst I ever did see. It took the rattler four days to die.”

  Mac looked for any hint of a smile. Flagg gave nothing away. He secured the S&W in the holster and passed it over.

  “You won’t be needing that. The rest of the boys all carry rifles. Some of them have sidearms.” He patted his own.

  “Walker Colt. A sturdy gun,” Mac said.

  “Ain’t never failed me yet. And it’s had plenty of chances to. Let’s get to the chuckwagon so you can see what more in the way of supplies you’ll need.”

  They walked in silence to the barn. Mac held down his urge to fill the silence with idle chatter. He had realized quickly that Flagg wasn’t the kind to appreciate jawing without reason. They stopped when Mac caught sight of the wagon, a huge affair with a tall back.

  “Yours, all yours ’til we get to Abilene. Figure out if you need anything more in the way of supplies while I cut out a team for you.”

  “Horses? Mules?”

  “Which do you reckon you handle better?” Flagg stepped back and gave him a long, appraising stare. “Horses. The mules would eat you alive.” He headed off to a corral, climbed the fence, and dropped inside, scattering horses as he worked his way among them.

  Mac began keeping a mental inventory of supplies, then quickly realized he couldn’t remember everything. He opened small drawers in a cabinet built into the wagon and finally found a piece of paper and a pencil. He drew his knife, stared for a second at the blood still caked on it from Micah Holdstock’s murder, then used it to sharpen the pencil. He licked the pencil tip and started his list of what he had. He was sitting cross-legged in the back of the wagon, staring at the list, when Flagg returned.
<
br />   “You got it all figured out?”

  “I need more flour. A barrel or two more. And salt.”

  “That’ll unbalance the wagon, no matter where you hang them.”

  “I want another couple barrels for water. How likely are we to hit a stretch where there’s no water for cooking?”

  “Plenty likely. Some of the streams run clear and cool. Others you wouldn’t take a piss in for fear you’d catch something.” Flagg nodded. “Lem said for me to fire you if you looked to be lost in the wilderness.” He turned and started off.

  Mac scrambled out and went after him. “Wait, wait! Are you saying you’re firing me?”

  “Get back on the wagon. We’re going into town to fetch your supplies.”

  “But—” Mac fell silent. He understood. If he had shown that he had no idea what he was doing, he would have been walking back to Waco. As lost as he felt, he had made the right guesses as to what the outfit required on the trail. That made him puff out his chest a little and walk with a strut. He might just make a success of this job yet.

  He climbed onto the driver’s box and started the team pulling for Waco. Flagg swung up onto a saddled horse and rode alongside.

  As they neared town, Mac began to worry that he would be spotted. The last thing he wanted now, when he was so close to getting out of these parts, was to have a shootout with Leclerc’s henchman or even the law. As they reached the outskirts of Waco, he pulled his hat down low over his eyes and looked around furtively.

  “You thinkin’ on stealing something, Mac?”

  He jerked around. He hadn’t been aware that Flagg was watching him so closely.

  “No, just, just the sun in my eyes.”

  Flagg pointed and said, “There’s the store. No need to go on through town. Since it’s close to noon, folks will be eating.”

  “So there won’t be many people stirring,” Mac finished for him.

  “That’s a good thing.” Flagg didn’t explain what he meant by that. He stepped down from the saddle and swung the reins around a hitching post in a practiced move that left the horse secured in a double half hitch. Two quick steps took him into the store. Flagg didn’t get in any hurry about talking, but his movements were efficient.

  Mac was hardly slower to follow after he secured his reins around the hand brake. He walked into the store to find Flagg dickering with the shopkeeper over a box of cartridges for his Walker Colt. Mac considered a box of .44s for his revolver, then realized he didn’t have any money. A dollar a day was a princely sum to earn for him, but he hadn’t worked for the Rolling J even one day yet.

  “You need bullets for that Schofield, Mac?” Flagg asked.

  “I can’t afford ’em.”

  “Get what you need. Put it on Mr. Jefferson’s tab. He’s got to see us outfitted all proper-like.” Flagg watched him carefully, then added, “It’s not cheating him. You might need that hog leg along the way, and it’s no good without bullets. Although it might make a decent hammer.”

  “You’re right, I suppose,” Mac said with a shrug. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “It’s not like I’m buying a fancy dress or a lady’s button-up shoes.”

  Mac finally got a smile out of Flagg—a faint one. As he went down his list of what he needed to complete the inventory for the chuckwagon, Flagg wandered about the store, stopping at a pine board just inside the door.

  “You need any spices, youngster?” the clerk asked. “Out on the trail, if food gets bad, you can hide the taste if you add enough of this and that. What strikes your fancy?” He pointed to a rack of spices with names that confused Mac. He chewed his lip, admitted he didn’t have any idea about most of them, then threw himself on the mercy of the shopkeeper.

  “What all do you recommend? Remember, this is going on Mr. Jefferson’s account.”

  Both Flagg and the clerk understood what he meant. Because of his employer, he wasn’t going to be gypped. The pile of small bottles grew, the clerk explaining what each was. Some Mac rejected, others he doubled.

  “That looks like all you’ll need. The Rolling J outfit’s going to eat high on the hog,” the shopkeeper said, laughing. “Or should I say they’ll appreciate the finest beef in all of Texas?”

  A new voice came from the doorway. “Now, Seth, you know that’s not true. The H Bar H is the finest in these parts, so that makes our cows the finest in all the state.” The speaker stood with hands on his hips, looking like he owned the world.

  “Howdy, Compass. You fixin’ to hit the trail soon, too?” The shopkeeper shook hands with the new customer.

  “Any day now, if the Rolling J boys don’t clean you out of whatever we need.” He turned to Flagg and shook hands. “Good seeing you again, Patrick. Who’s your new hand?”

  “This here’s Mac Mackenzie, our new cook.”

  “Compass Jack Bennett,” the man said, almost crushing Mac’s hand in his own. “Wait, don’t ask. Everyone does. They call me Compass because I can’t get lost. No matter where I am or how they try to confuse me, I know exactly where I’m going.”

  “A handy skill,” Mac said, not sure if he believed the man.

  “He’s the trail boss for the H Bar H herd.”

  Compass Jack looked hard at Mac, then said, “You worried about replacing Abel Jones?”

  Mac had never heard the name before and didn’t answer.

  “There warn’t nothing able about Abel,” Flagg said. “Lem’s done good finding a replacement. And if he hasn’t, tarring and feathering Mac will be easy enough.”

  “I’ll see you as you drive into Abilene,” the H Bar H trail boss said.

  “You got that backward, Compass. We’ll watch you driving your herd of scrawny cows in because we’ll have sold ours and will be celebrating.”

  “And this is the man everyone says is never optimistic. I just never thought you were hallucinating, Flagg.” Compass Jack slapped Flagg on the shoulder and began listing all he needed for his drive.

  Flagg inclined his head toward the door.

  “We got barrels to load,” he told Mac. “And that hundred pounds of fancy spices you can’t even pronounce.”

  Mac held up the box containing the spices he had bought. Flagg exaggerated by about ninety-eight pounds. If a pinch was all he needed to give flavor to his meals, the Rolling J cowboys would appreciate the grub on this trip more than they had under Abel Jones.

  Before he could ask Flagg about the former cook, he stopped and stared. The pine board beside the door leading into the street had a dozen wanted posters tacked to it. He almost panicked when he saw a couple of them had been torn down. Was his one of them? He swallowed hard, then went outside to help Flagg with the heavy barrels. The quicker he got away from Waco, the better.

  * * *

  Mac was beside himself. He had pots and pans galore, some filled, others waiting to be filled with food he had prepared for the entire crew. They had lined up with their tin plates and spoons, wanting dinner. Mac felt overwhelmed until he got to the point where he reckoned he would either give the entire ranch a bellyache and they would fire him or he would serve a meal they tolerated.

  As he slopped the food onto their outstretched plates, he wasn’t sure which he had cooked. The few tastes he had done while he worked had been bland. He hesitated to use the spices bought in town, keeping them in reserve as a last-gasp effort once they were out on the trail. He looked up as Lem Carson thrust out his place.

  “Fill ’er up,” he said.

  “Double portion for you,” Mac said. As he spooned out his concoctions, he asked, “Where’s Mr. Jefferson? I expected him to be here with the men since we’re heading out in the morning.”

  The drive hadn’t gotten away from the ranch today after all, preparations having taken longer than expected. Because of that, Mac had been able to use the kitchen in the ranch house to prepare this evening’s meal.

  “Boss is feeling poorly.” The way Carson spoke put off any other questions. Then the next man in line pu
shed to get his turn at the food.

  Mac worked diligently until no one else stood in front of him. He stared. More than forty men had staked out places around the house to sit and eat. They shoveled the food directly from the plate into their mouths, few of them slowing down. When Patrick Flagg came over, Mac had to ask, “Do you want seconds, or are you here to warn me to get a running start?”

  “Food’s not bad,” Flagg allowed as he put his plate and spoon in the big pan where the dirty dishes were collected. “The one you got to please is Carson. He’s a picky eater.”

  “Is that why he fired Abel Jones?”

  “Abel got himself run off the Rolling J because he showed up drunk once too often. That and . . . well, that other thing with the goat.”

  Before Mac asked what more there was, Flagg turned and walked away.

  Lem Carson sauntered over. “Aren’t you eating?”

  “How was it? The food?” Mac tried not to sound too anxious as he asked the question.

  “I’ve had better.”

  Mac’s heart felt like it was about to explode. He waited for the trail boss to fire him.

  “I’ve had worse, too.” Carson slapped him on the shoulder. “Be ready to roll an hour before dawn. Me and you, we ride point. I scout the trail, you follow and get set up for supper.” With that he walked on, calling to others in the outfit.

  The trail boss hadn’t fired him after the first meal, Mac thought. That was good. Breakfast would be cold in the morning because he and Carson would be on the trail, finding a place to stop at midday to feed the trail hands before moving on ahead of the herd to repeat the meal for evening chow.

  He scraped what was left out of a pot and sampled it.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all, if I do say so myself.” He set to work eating what remained and then got to cleaning the pots and pans. He wanted everything ready to go for when they hit the trail.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mac couldn’t believe they’d been on the trail for a solid week and no one had complained about his cooking. As Carson had claimed back in Waco, give them decent biscuits and they’d stick with him through thick and thin. Every time he wanted to change how he fixed the biscuits, just a little to experiment, he remembered how José in Sadie’s kitchen had done it and how the biscuits had come out golden brown and perfect. Some of his experiments with the rest of the food weren’t too successful, but giving the drovers their bread kept him in their good graces.