CHAPTER XXXI

THE JONAH

“MOVE ’em out, boys! We’ll see what’ll happen next.” Nabours spoke with a half sigh in his voice. The departure of McMasters and of the soldiers had left a strange feeling of loneliness among the Del Sol men. They began to brood, to lose morale. This was after two more days of riding, combing cattle out of the timber along the Washita, which very luckily had caught and left partly nugatory the last run of the much harassed herd.

The hour was not yet late; and although the tired trail hands had little enough of sleep, there was no active murmuring, and the order of the day once more began, the long line of longhorns stringing out, the guides on either side.

The cattle paced on methodically enough, but the arrival at the Washita was so late in the day that the trail boss concluded not to cross until the following morning. They found the banks as McMasters had said—high and steep; and the river had swimming water. But much to their joy they found a good-sized raft which some one, probably Rudabaugh and his men, for reasons of their own, had spent some time and care in building.

“Well, there won’t many of them need it now,” commented Nabours, “and we do. That’s the first luck we’ve had. I’m scared to swim that girl again.”

They crossed the carts without difficulty in the morning, and the entire herd swam over easily, a narrow trail being plain on the other side.

Once more on their way, and with the Washita behind them, a certain feeling of light-heartedness came to the trail drovers. They sang cheerily to their cows as they rode alongside, caught the feel of the new country lying on ahead.

The weather was not unfavorable, but in the afternoon the older trail men began to look at the sky. There was a dull, lifeless feeling in the air. The wind had ceased. A bank of clouds lay black in the lower west.

“It may rain,” said Jim Nabours, coming over to Taisie’s near-by camp after the herd was turned off to bed down. “You and your women, Miss Taisie, had better sleep in the carts to-night. I hope to the Lord our little dogies won’t take a notion to run again to-night! This herd’s getting plumb spoiled. Before long they’ll run every time a feller lights a cigarrito.”

“Look as that lightning in west, Jim,” remarked Cal Dalhart. “It’s worse than cigarritos. I hope she’ll pass around.”

But the prairie storm did not intend to pass around them. They lay directly in the center of a low barometer. The air was oppressively hot, so still that a leaf would have fallen straight to the ground; yet the face of the western cloud was lit with continuous electrical discharges. An uneasiness came into the air that even the cattle felt. The greenhead flies had swarmed in the grass all day. Now clouds of mosquitoes made life a burden for men and beasts. It was hard to bed the cattle down.

“Set the wagon tongues on the North Star, boys, while you can see it,” said Jim Nabours. The dark cloud was steadily rising. “This is going to be one hell of a night. You’ll need your slickers. Look yonder! I’ve heard tell about that sort of a thing, but I’ve never saw it afore.”

He pointed toward the bed ground. In the strange electrical condition of the air the horns of each steer showed two little balls of flame, thousands of them in the total, a strange and awesome sight in the gloom. As the night watch rode later they saw electricity on the tips of their horses’ ears. It almost dripped from the air; the earth seemed bathed in it.

At midnight the stars passed away under a high vanguard of scurrying clouds. The strange tensity in the air increased as continuous rolls of thunder came closer.

“We’ve all got to get on the herd,” said Nabours finally. “There’s going to be trouble.”

The men all mounted their night horses and made ready. There came to them all a feeling of pygmylike incompetency as the edge of the storm extended itself as though with some inner propelling power. The wind had not yet begun. They knew they were in for one of the terrible electrical storms of the prairies.

The steady flashes of lightning along the cloud face broke into jagged forks. Intermittent among these came short bolts of the chain lightning. A smell of sulphur filled the air. A strange blue tint seemed to come into some of the lightning bolts. At times there seemed to be a continuous sheet of fire along the grass tops towards the west. This later was broken by balls of fire which rolled along the ground, exploding like bombshells. There seemed nothing in the air except light; sparks and whirls and wheels of light, like so many pin wheels. A strange, alarming, oppressive feel, as though of a settling fog, came upon them all. If a man reached a hand to his hat brim the electricity literally dripped from it.

Rarely, even on the high prairies, did the tremendous electrical disturbances ever reach such violence; not one of these hardened range men had ever seen the like of this. But to the wonder of all the cattle did not at once make any break. They seemed stupefied themselves. They now all were on their feet, but in the continuous succession of blinding flashes on every side, the crash of thunder coming from all quarters, they could form no course for running and stood rooted in sheer terror. Nor was there a man who did not think his own end had come.

The climax came in a straight bolt from above, which struck and exploded directly in the middle of the herd. The detonation was as though a giant shrapnel shell had dropped. Twenty cattle were killed outright. Two horses dropped. A rider was smitten dead, another came out of the shock dazed and for some hours stone deaf. The old Mexican, Sanchez, had a fashion of wearing a pair of ancient spectacles. They were burned from his ears, only the bow between the rims remaining, and that burned deep into his nose. Len Hersey boasted a fancy tie with a stickpin, once bought in better days. The gold was melted from it, the stone dropped in the grass. The nap of his sombrero was singed smooth. A score of unbelievable phenomena, a series of miraculous escapes came all at once.

This last exploding bolt, so disastrous in its effect, was more than any herd could stand. The cattle started like a covey of quail. The universe seemed in dissolution. There was nothing for the men to do but follow as best they could. It was as safe in one place as in another, and of shelter there was none. Never was a wilder ride than that night; for now, with a rush and steady roar, came the wind and the slanting rain. The encampment at the bed ground was afloat, deserted. Old Milly put out her head.

“Miss Taisie! Miss Taisie!” she called. She got no answer. “My Lord! she done killed!” she called out to Anita.

Then arose her lamentations continuously as she lay in her drenched blankets. They two were all that remained. Even Buck was gone.

The run in a general way had headed north. A couple of miles ahead, between them and the Canadian River, lay a little boggy creek lined with thickets. Suddenly enlarged by the rain, it overflowed and made very soft footing for fifty or a hundred yards. Into this boggy trap the animals plunged in their madness. Within a few moments a third of the herd was bogged down. An inexplicable confusion took place among the others. No man could do anything here. The riders only followed such strings of cattle as they could hear farther down the stream. They all knew that when daylight came they would have their work to do in salvaging from the quagmire. Most of them tried to find their way back to camp, and those who made it sat huddled, drenched, as the weird flame-edged clouds passed on. Until dawn, they never knew there was a dead man lying in the grass on the bed ground three hundred yards from the camp, among the dead cattle and horses. Well, it was another grave; and this made the first duty of the day. They put up the third little headboard. So passed Al Pendleton. Though crippled by his gunshot wound, he had insisted on taking saddle.

Now the work of snaking out bogged cattle—the most unwelcome of all range work—must go forward along the muddy stream, hour after hour, as soon as the depressing dawn gave light for the beginning. The waters falling, some of the cattle struggled ashore as soon as they could see. Others needed but little help, a few had to be abandoned. In this work of roping and dragging, it took two men to handle a steer. As soon as one of the wild creatures got his feet he was certain to charge his rescuer. Hard work, dirty work, dangerous work; slow, utterly disheartening. But it was here to be done. Once more, slowly, a battered and begrimed cohort of broad horns began to assemble, watched by tired, muddy, cursing men.

“Sinker,” called Nabours to the boy as he came by coiling his muddy rope in the gray cold dawn, “you go on and find Dalhart, and ride back to camp. I don’t know where the rest of the horses went. Drive in what cows you find. It ain’t so far. Tell the cook we’ll be in for a little coffee, some of us, right soon.”

These two, so commanded, came into camp only to learn the news from Milly. The bed of Taisie Lockhart was empty. Her horse was gone.

“I’ll bet I know!” said Cinquo. “I’ll bet she follered the remuda in the dark!”

He was off, following the plain trail of the running horses, Dalhart at his side. They rode hard for a mile. The horses had struck timber, slowed up and scattered.

“I see her!” called out the boy at last. “That’s her zebry horse anyway.”

The white-banded son of Blancocito was not to be mistaken. But the saddle was empty! At the foot of a near-by tree lay the object which they sought.

She was alive, was sitting up, propped against a tree trunk; indeed, was on the point of mounting. So much they saw with sudden joy as they flung down and ran to her.

The man pushed the boy away roughly. Kneeling, Dalhart caught the girl in his arms, uttering impetuous words. What he saw filled Cinquo with shame and horror. This man had touched the divinity of Del Sol! He was holding her in his arms! He was going to kiss her! Sacrilege!

Cinquo saw flame points. He sprang forward, his long revolver in his hand.

“Say, you! You let go of her, mister! Stop now, or I’ll stop you for shore!”

The boy was blubbering in his excitement, but as Dalhart turned he saw that the aim of the weapon was true. Taisie beat at him with her hands, weakly, pushing him away.

“I’ll wring your neck!” began Dalhart, starting toward the boy. Only the girl’s voice saved them one or both.

“No! No!” she called. “He means well! Cinquo, come here!”

Dalhart turned to her almost savagely.

“You promised me!” he said. “You gave me your word down there! Is this how you keep your promise?”

But between the two of them, the girl with her tears and the boy with his revolver, Cal Dalhart got on very ill with his wooing.

“I can wait,” said he slowly at last.

In his sobbing excitement the boy was dangerous as a rattlesnake, and Dalhart was wise enough to know it. Only one voice could calm him. Taisie spoke with decision.

“Throw down your gun, Cinquo! Drop it, I tell you!”

Cinquo obeyed. His tears came freely now. He trembled.

“Trouble with me is, ma’am,” said he, “I got chills and fever. To-day I got ’em both. I been up all night. I don’t give a damn for that man, but this here is awful hard for you.”

“Cinquo,” said Taisie, putting her hand on his grimy shirt sleeve as she drew him beside her, “you are as good a man as I’ve got. Listen now! I’m not hurt. I just ran into a tree in the dark and got knocked out of the saddle. For a long time I didn’t know anything—my head’s bruised; but I was going to get up and ride right soon. Now go and find the horses; they’re not far. I saw the bell mare just below.”

The boy, shivering in his saddle, racked by the native ague, went off dully about his duties. He cast an eye over his shoulder, saw Dalhart riding close to the side of the mistress of Del Sol.

“The trouble with you is,” broke out Dalhart moodily, “you don’t know how a man can love you—you don’t know how I love you!”

He reached out a hand to touch the bridle of her saddle horse, which flung its head impatiently.

“I think I do,” said Taisie slowly. “You love me like a man. They’re all alike.”

“I believe you do love that damned Gonzales renegade. He’s gone again, and he may come back, or he may not. What you need is a man to take care of you; some one better than that cold-blooded killer that ain’t got a heart for either man or woman!”

“Stop! I tell you I want to hear no more of this!” The girl’s voice had in it a quiet fury. “At least I never have heard that man say a word against you or any one else. If he’s a killer he’d face his man, I’m sure of that, and not curse him behind his back.”

“He’d better not say anything about me,” Dalhart blustered.

But Taisie Lockhart’s contemptuous laugh at that was the cruelest thing he had ever heard in all his life. She spurred on and left him.

* * * * *

Dribbles of the herd continued to come in. The draggled encampment was slow to take on even a little order. The men had begun to lose confidence, to dread their luck. And now was time for a repetition of the scene on the south bank of the Red—another rider must find burial in his blankets. Never had the spirits of the men been so low, the hope of success so faint, the savage irritability of all so unmistakable.

It took a day and a half to finish the unhappy duties of the last camp below the Canadian and drive forward the remade herd. It was necessary to follow down the boggy stream to find a sound crossing. Beyond, within a mile or so, lay the main Canadian. Here at least they met no trouble. The spongelike sands had swallowed up the torrents until only an occasional thread of lazily trickling water marked the wide expanse from bank to bank. The cattle, warm and thirsty, seemed disposed to break ranks and explore these little trickles of water, so that the men had enough to do. Dalhart rode moodily, indifferently, on his point.

“Damn it, man!” called Del Williams to him, approaching him after one more chase after a wisp of stragglers. “I’d think you could ’tend to your own end part ways somehow!”

It was the first time he had spoken to Dalhart in days. Their enmity was smoldering.

“I don’t need any help from anybody about handling cows,” retorted the other; “least of all from you.”

Del Williams rode straight up to him at what seemed a challenge.

“I don’t see you for no cowman, myself,” said he.

They sat face to face midway of the dry river bed.

“I want to know what you mean,” said Dalhart. “I’ve been as good a hand on this trail as you have.”

“I don’t think so. Nothing but luck kept you from drownding that girl crossing the Red. More than that, it was you that let logs come through the cattle when they was swimming the day before. That started the mill. Four hundred cows lost and two men drownded. You was upriver side of the herd.”

This was mortal affront, as Del Williams was willing that it should be. At the time both men were unarmed.

“You know I won’t stand that,” said Dalhart.

“You heard it plain,” rejoined Williams quietly. “Make your play any time you like.”

“All right, I will make it! We both said we’d hold off till we struck Abilene. We’ll not both ride south together,” said Dalhart savagely.

“I hope not,” smiled Del Williams. “I have got plenty of grief riding in sight of you going north.”

Neither man liked to be the first to back his horse. Their actions caught the sight of Nabours, who started back.

“Look here!” he began. “What are you two doing here?”

“Well,” began Dalhart, “he told me I wasn’t doing my work.”

“Then he told you plumb right. Look at you now, both of you. You two give me your word, both of you, that you’d quit this quarreling till you got to Aberlene. Now quit it or else get out. If a little more happens I am going to get on the prod my own self.”

They separated. Del Williams later approached Nabours, both moody, sore.

“Jim,” said he, “look at the luck! Could anything more happen to us? I tell you, there’s a Jonah somewheres on this herd.”

“There shore is!” rejoined the harried foreman. “There shore is! And it’s got red hair.”