Longhorn Empire (4 page)

Gradually the ground became more broken, with long rises, isolated clumps of rocks and occasional beetling cliffs. The sun
was low in the overcast sky when Brant noticed, a few miles ahead, a silvery gleam winding out of the northwest. He drew a
deep breath of relief. It was a small stream cutting across the route the cattle followed. A little later and Smoke had his
nose buried in the cool water.

Brant traced the course of the stream with his eyes. He saw that it flowed from the dark mouth of a narrow canyon that slashed
the hills about a mile to the north. He eyed the opening with interest. So far as he could see, it was the only break in the
wall of the hills anywhere near. He glanced
swiftly to the west, and again he thought he sighted movement in the fringe of brush. His lips set in a hard line. He turned
his attention to the immediate terrain.

Across the stream was a stretch of level grass land that rolled to the foot of a wide cliff that based a fairly high rise.
A few hundred yards from the foot of the cliff a gentle slope began. It terminated in a bench perhaps a score of yards wide.
Then came a slight slope to a second and narrower bench that shouldered against the upward loom of the cliff. Brant nodded
with satisfaction, turned in his saddle and again studied the canyon mouth. The second bench curved around the stand of cliffs
and sloped downward to the prairie floor. From there on was open prairie to the canyon mouth, with the stream cutting across
it in a series of curves.

Glancing back, Brant saw the chuck wagons had forged ahead and were rolling toward him at no great distance to the rear. He
waved them to come on and set about deciding the best place for the camp.

Bedding down a herd was no snide chore. The critters must not be crowded too closely. Neither should they be scattered over
too much ground. Brant knew that, well grazed and watered, the herd would lie quietly about half the night. Then, just as
if a signal had been given by some leader, the cows would get on their feet, stretch, yawn, amble about a step or two. After
a few grunts and rumbles, they would lie down again, generally on the other side. Just sort of like a cowpoke sitting up in
his blankets to roll and smoke a cigarette
then turning over and snuggling back to rest.

The cows would be allowed to drift from the bed ground as soon as day dawned. The cocktail riders, the last of the night guard
shift, would move them in the right direction before the day herders took over and the weary night men hustled to surround
their morning chuck.

“Unhitch up on that first bench and make camp there,” Brant told the chuck wagon drivers. “Good place to cook and eat.”

“Good for sleepin’, too,” observed one of the drivers. “Nice soft grass and enough of a cliff overhang to cut off the wind
and most of the rain if it happens to cut loose durin’ the night. Better shelter up on that second bench, but the ground under
the cliff looks almighty hard and rocky.”

Brant nodded, but did not comment.

Soon the herd came bawl-bellerin’ up to the stream. The cows drank prodigiously, then began grazing on the rich grass. Brant
sat his horse and watched them for some minutes. Occasionally, his gaze, grown contemplative, would shift across the prairie
toward the dark canyon mouth from which the stream rolled like a tarnished silver ribbon. He glanced at the darkening sky,
shook his head and rode up to the bench where the cooks were busy with their skillets and ovens.

After supper was over and the night guards posted, Brant gave some orders that caused his men to stare.

“Leave your bedrolls down here by the fire,” he told them. “Each of you take a couple of blankets and bed down on that second
bench, close to the
cliff. Everybody sleeps in his clothes tonight— everything, including boots and guns. The horses are to be tied up there,
too, under full rig.” He called six men by name.

“You jiggers bed down over here with me,” he directed. “All right, you better hit the hay. May not get much shuteye to night,
can’t tell.”

The hands grumbled and swore, but did as directed. On a drive the word of the Trail Boss is law. Not even the owner questions
his orders. All responsibility is his, and in consequence, all authority.

John Webb drew Brant aside. “You figger there might be trouble to night, Austin?” he asked.

“Could be,” Brant replied.

“You figger somebody might make a try for our cows?”

“Could be,” Brant repeated. “I’m playing a hunch, that’s all. If it’s a fool hunch, there isn’t much damage done, aside from
considerable cussin’, but if it turns out to be a straight one, well, you might be glad I sort of took precautions.”

“Your chore,” grunted old John, with a shrug of his big shoulders.

“So I figure,” Brant returned. “Now I’m going to ride down for a gab with the night hawks.”

“Be a fine night for any hellions with notions,” Webb growled. “So dark you can’t see twenty feet, and the wind kickin’ up
enough row to drown any noise, and enough rain mist to deaden sounds, too.”

Brant rode down to the level prairie, circled the herd and talked to each night hawk in turn.

“Keep back in the shadow,” he told them. “There’s no thunder or lightning, and no signs of
any, and just enough wind and rain to keep the critters bunched for warmth. They should be plumb quiet all night, unless something
sets them off. If something does, don’t ride in to the herd. Ride away from it, and ride out a good piece, pull up and be
all set to start ’em millin’ if they scatter. Don’t forget what I told you, now, or you’re liable to pay heavy for the mistake.”

He rode back to the bench, leaving the night guards considerably mystified but very much on the alert.

There was no need to tether Smoke, so Brant merely dropped the split bridle to the ground and left the big moro to his own
devices, knowing that he would not stray. He assured himself that all the hands were sleeping on the upper bench, then walked
to the edge of the cliff wall, settled himself in a comfortable position and waited.

Slowly the hours passed, and nothing happened. Brant’s eyes grew heavy from constant staring into the dark. Despite the shelter
afforded by the cliff overhang, his clothes became sodden with the rain mist that drifted in upon him. The sleeping cowboys,
farther back, were better protected and the wind that chilled Brant to the bone did not reach them.

The silence persisted, broken only by the thin wail of the wind and the occasional impatient stamp of a horse. Brant heard
the grunting and shifting as the cows stood up for the midnight “stretch,” then the contented groaning and gurgling as they
settled back to rest once more.

Another hour passed, with nothing happening, and then with the suddenness of a thunderclap the silence burst into horrific
sound. Yells split the
air, swung slickers snapped and crackled. There was a crashing of gunshots. Brant heard bullets thud into the blanket rolls
laid in rows by the dying fire on the lower bench.

The cattle came to their feet with terrified bawls. Brant leaped forward a pace and both his guns streamed fire as he fired at
the flashes on the prairie below. The exultant whoops of the raiders changed to yelps of alarm. The Running W hands came tumbling
from their blankets, sized up the situation instantly and the boom of their guns added to the pandemonium. For moments the
night was a blazing, roaring, bellowing hell. Then, with a low thunder of hoofs, the herd stampeded madly to the south. After
them crashed the yelling raiders, lead whining through the darkness in their wake.

“After those cows! Round ’em up and start ’em millin’!” Brant shouted to the cursing cowboys. He turned to his own selected
hands who were grouped close around him. “All right, fork your cayuses,” he told them. “We’ll give those wide-loopin’ gents
a mite of a surprise.”

Around the cliff wall they bulged and up the long slope, speeding in the wake of Smoke who raced a length in the lead. They
reached the crest of the rise, topped it and skalleyhooted down the far sag. For a mile Brant headed due north, then he veered
to the west, his men swerving after him. Straight ahead the ominous loom of the hills showed dimly in the faint sheen of starlight
that filtered through the cloud rack. As they drew nearer, a blacker segment made itself evident. It was the mouth of the canyon
Brant had observed
the evening before. He led his men into its gloom and halted.

“All right,” he directed, “lead the horses over to one side and leave them in the brush. Those hellions should show any minute
now. They’ll have to circle back from the south with the bunch they cut out, but they won’t be far behind us, or I’m making
a big mistake. Get set. Let the cows go into the gulch. The sidewinders will be back to the rear, shoving them along. When
they’re close enough to line sights on, let ’em have it.”

Tensely the cowboys waited, guns out and ready. For some minutes nothing happened. Then a low mutter shattered the silence.
It grew to a rumble of many hoofs punctuated by the bleating of frightened steers. A dark mass came rolling across the prairie.
Shouts sounded, and the sharper click of horses’ irons. Jostling and clashing, the rustled cows poured into the blackness
of the gorge. Behind loomed some six or seven horsemen.

“Let ’em have it!” roared Brant.

Instantly the cowboys’ guns spouted fire. The canyon walls rocked to the thunder of the explosions. A terrified yell sounded.
It was followed by the thud of a falling body, and another. There was a scream of pain, a gurgling cough, a wild clashing
of bridle irons, then the frantic beat of hoofs fading into the distance. The Running W hands sent lead whining after the
fleeing raiders until the uproar died away.

Brant lowered his smoking Colt. “We got a couple of ’em,” he exulted. “I heard ’em hit the ground. Let’s have a look-see.
Careful, now, they’re fangin’
sidewinders and deadly as a back-busted rattler. Don’t take a chance of leaning against a passing slug. Take it easy.”

Cautiously, guns ready, the cowboys crept out of the shadows. On the ground at the mouth of the canyon lay what looked like
two bundles of old clothes. Neither moved as the punchers approached. Brant took a chance and scratched a match. The tiny
flare of light showed the two owl-hoots satisfactorily dead.

“This one is shot to pieces,” he said, bending over the dead man. “The other’s drilled plumb center, too. Say, this hellion
looks familiar to me.”

“Boss,” exclaimed one of the hands, “it’s that jigger you had the wring with back at the Dead-fall, the feller Phil Doran
called Porter.”

“Darned if it isn’t,” Brant agreed, scratching another match “And I’ll bet a hatful of pesos he’s the hellion I spotted riding
herd on us all day yesterday over here in the brush. Well, he horned into one game too many!”

Dawn was breaking by the time the cowboys combed the wide-looped cows out of the canyon and started them back to the camp.
When they got there, they found that the rest of the herd had been rounded up and was grazing quietly near the bedding ground.
The night hawks had obeyed Brant’s order and skalleyhooted at the first sign of danger. Nobody had been hurt, but Brant grimly
surveyed the bullet holes in the bedrolls beside the rekindled fire.

“Snake-blooded bunch of hellions,” he told Webb.

The old cowman removed his wide hat and mopped his face with a handkerchief.

“Gives me the creeps to think of what would have happened if we’d been bedded down here instead of on that upper bench,” he
said. “Son, you sure did a good chore and we all owe you a heap. How in blazes did you figger it out?”

“Yesterday,” Brant explained, “I spotted a jigger over in the edge of the brush riding herd on us. He kept it up all day,
and I had a hunch he wasn’t doing all that riding just to exercise his horse. I figured he was there to find out just where
we were going to bed down for the night and to get the lay of the land. Then he would hightail to a meeting place with the
rest of his bunch and give them the lowdown. Chances were they were riding higher up in the hills, out of sight. When we did
make camp, the thing was a perfect natural from their viewpoint. That canyon mouth is only about a mile distant from our camp.
A plumb dark night. They could cut out a nice bunch of cows, slide them into that canyon and make an easy getaway. They figured
we would be too busy rounding up the rest of the herd to trail after them, and even if we did, everything would be in their
favor. So I decided the only thing to do was outsmart those gents. I gambled on their heading for the canyon with the bunch
they cut out. Not that it was much of a gamble—the canyon was about the only place they could go. I also had a notion their
sort wouldn’t stop at a little thing like a cold-blooded killing or two. That’s why I shifted the camp to the upper bench
and left the bedrolls down on the lower bench as a come-on. They fell for it, all right.”

“Outsmarted ’em is right!” growled Webb. “They’re smartin’ right now, I betcha, what’s left
of ’em. Figger you winged any more beside the two you downed?”

“There was some tall yelling when we cut down on them,” Brant replied. “I’ve got a pretty good notion there was a punctured
hide or two among the bunch that got away.”

“Hope the hellions starve to death from leakin’ their vittles out the holes,” said Webb. “Well, mebbe we can make Dodge, now,
without any more rukuses.”

“Hope so,” agreed Brant. “We should make it before dark, if things go right.”

Somebody once said, “The only difference between Dodge City and Hell is that you don’t have to worry about anybody runnin’
you outa Hell!”

Which wasn’t much of an exaggeration when the Running W Trail herd rolled up to town.

The “Cowboy Capital” was at the height of its prosperity. When George Hoover and Jack Mc-Donald pitched a tent on the site
of the future cowtown, from which they sold whiskey to Fort Dodge soldiers, it is doubtful if they in the least envisioned
what the future was to bring. Harry Lovett put up a second canvas saloon, and a gentleman with more elaborate notions, one
Henry Sitler, built a sod house. This growing metropolis was called Buffalo City until the following spring brought railroad
construction gangs. The railroaders mapped a town on the north side of the Arkansas River, five miles west of the fort. Very
quickly, the ruts of the old Santa Fe Trail saw a general store and ware house, three dancehalls and a half dozen saloons
come into being. Dodge City was substituted for the really more descriptive “Buffalo City.” Here at the end of steel— where
the Santa Fe was pushing south to the Rio Grande—swiftly boomed a roaring, hell-raising,
gun-smoking frontier town, the equal of which the nation was never to see again.

Smack up against the buffalo range, all Dodge City needed was railroad facilities to become the focal point of the hide business.
And in those days buffalo hides were “Big Business.” Thousands of hunters proceeded to collect millions of dollars for hides
and meat and to spend the dinero in unequalled hell raisin’. Other throngs of wild and salty railroad builders added their
payrolls to the flood of gold. Fully a thousand freight teams consisting of from eight to sixteen horses to a single great
wagon hauled supplies south, west and north. The bull-whackers, mule-skinners and others attached to this industry were not
of the modest violet type. Their chief ambition in life seemed to be to blow the wages of months in a single night of wild
carousal in Dodge City. Several hundred soldiers and Indian scouts from Fort Dodge had similar notions. Dodge City was going
strong, but hadn’t really seen nothin’ yet!

For the longhorns were on the march. The great herds began rolling up the Jones and Plummer Trail, and with them came their
cowboy guardians with ideas of whoopin’ it up that surpassed anything Dodge City had yet seen. Because of the element of competition
involved, bull-whackers and mule skinners sort of didn’t like railroaders and buffalo hunters. The sentiment was returned.
Soldiers considered themselves better men than the gentlemen who drove mules, hunted buffalo or graded railroad, and were
willing and ready to prove it at any time. Differences of opinion naturally arose, for the gentlemen who did not wear
the blue couldn’t see it that way. The result was gunsmoke in more than considerable quantities. The Texas cowboys had their
own notions of who really belonged on top of the heap and backed it up with cartridges.

A proper seasoning for this kettle of “hell-broth” was provided by the gamblers, gunmen, owlhoots, “ladies” and others of
similar ilk gathered from the four corners of the earth and run out of at least three and usually four.

All of which made Dodge City not exactly the place for a rest cure.

Of course, the Texans didn’t like Northern men and were not slow in making the fact known. As they swaggered from saloon to
gambling-hall to honky-tonk, jingling their spurs on high-heeled boots, their broad-brimmed “rainsheds” cocked jauntily over
one eye, their six-guns much in evidence, they express their opinion in no uncertain tones. All of which somewhat irritated
the older citizens. And not altogether without reason. The cowboys rode their horses on the sidewalks and into saloons. They
took over the most attractive of the dance-hall girls. By way of variety they held up gambling games, and added insult to
injury by throwing the dinero thus acquired across the bars, onto the green tables and into the ready hands of the “ladies.”
They shot the windows out of stores, proved their marksmanship by dusting the lights in various places with lead and by “dusting
off” individuals who registered protest. It was all good fun, of course, but the humor was not always appreciated.

The most striking proof that all was not peaceful in Dodge was the fact that in Dodge’s first
season as a cow camp, twenty-five gentlemen were planted in Boot Hill, so called because the deceased were almost always buried
with their boots, and other clothing, on. Lumber was too scarce and dear to waste on coffins.

At the time, Dodge was mostly Front Street, a wide road running east and west just north of the Santa Fe tracks. The principal
cross street over the Arkansas River. For two blocks each way from Second Avenue, Front Street widened into what was known
as the Plaza. The town’s chief business establishments were strung along the north side of this square. Here were the Dodge
House, Deacon Cox’s famous hotel, Wright & Beverley’s store, about the most important commercial establishment on the plains,
the Delmonico Restaurant, the Long Branch Saloon, the Alamo Saloon, the City Drug Store, the Alhambra Saloon and the Dodge
Opera House. The railroad depot, water tank and freight house were at the east end of the Plaza. Just south of the tracks
was the calaboose or city jail, a one-roomed building constructed of two-by-six timbers. Perched on top of the flat roof was
a flimsy structure the city judge and clerk used as an office.

South of the tracks were cheap hotels, honkeytonks, saloons without number, small-fry gambling houses and corrals.

To the north of Front Street, on a hill, was the residential section. An adjoining rise, the highest point in town, was occupied
by what many considered the town’s most thriving establishment— Boot Hill.

To the north of the railroad there was at least a semblance of law and order. South of the tracks
in Hell’s Half Acres, between the railroad and the Arkansas River, most anything went, and most anything was the commonplace
happening.

“I’ve seen Abilene, Wichita and Ellsworth, but this pueblo plumb passes the limit,” old John remarked to Austin Brant. They
had just finished a satisfactory conference with Webb’s buyer and were walking slowly along Front Street in the early evening.

“You haven’t seen anything yet, just wait till it gets dark,” Brant prophesied. “By the way, I’ve a notion we ought to drop
in and have a talk with the city marshal. His name is Tom Carney, I believe.”

They found the marshal in his office. He was an affable man who greeted them pleasantly.

“I’d say the Dodge House is your best bet,” he replied to the question Webb put to him. “It’s usually quiet and orderly and
Deacon Cox who runs it doesn’t stand for any foolishness. Questionable characters aren’t wanted there, and they know it. I
certainly wouldn’t advise you to go foolin’ around south of the tracks. Everybody knows you run your big herd in today and
that a buyer was here waiting for you to take over most of your cows. They’d be liable to figger the buyer paid off as soon
as the cows were turned over to him.

“Besides, I don’t expect much peace to night. I got word that some of Dutch Harry’s bunch are headed for town. They are out-and-out
owlhoots and won’t stop at anything. Soon as I hear where they land, I figger to drop a loop on them and corral them in the
calaboose. Young hellions from the cow country raisin’ cain is one thing, but jiggers with robbery and cold-blooded killin’s
in mind is somethin’ else again. Under the circumstances, I’d stay indoors as much as possible while you’re in town, if I
was you.”

“Good advice,” agreed Webb. “Reckon I’m takin’ it.”

Before repairing to the hotel, Webb and Brant walked up the hill through the residential section. From its crest they could
see a dozen herds held outside of town. The stockyards were crowded to the gates.

“Plenty of business, plenty of business,” remarked the ranch owner. “And I figger the end ain’t in sight yet.”

Webb was right. An amazing market for Texas cows was developing with astounding rapidity. Four transcontinental lines of railroad
were building. They made millions of acres of land accessible to home seekers. The push of the railroads into the Mississippi
region made possible contact between the crowded population of the East and the rich grasslands of the West. Modern packing
plants had already come into existence. Refrigerator cars were already running. Beef was being canned. To supply these markets
and to stock the great ranges along the Rockies was up to the Texas longhorns. And at the moment, hell-roarin’ Dodge was the
focal point of distribution. Yes, there was “plenty of business,” and more to come.

“I figure I’ll look the town over a bit before hitting the hay,” Brant told his Boss when they reached the hotel. “Like to
see what makes it tick. And,” he added, “I want to sort of keep an eye on the boys to night. They’ll be swallerforkin’ all
over the lot.”

“Reckon they will,” agreed Webb. “Go to it, son. Me, I’m takin’ the marshal’s advice and not sashayin’ around with this hefty
passel of money on me.”

Dusk was falling when Brant left the hotel. He located a good restaurant and enjoyed a prime surroundin’ of chuck. Then he
sauntered out to look the town over.

“It was worth looking over, all right. With the advent of darkness, Dodge was really beginning to howl. Front Street was jammed
with folks of all sorts moving to and fro on the board sidewalks, jostling, elbowing, laughing, swearing. In the street, riders
were weaving in and out. Horses were tied to hitch racks, freight outfits were still unloading. The windows of saloons and
gambling halls glowed as yellow as the gold that clinked the mahogany or slithered across the green cloth. The great mirror
blazing bars were crowded, as were the tables and the other games. Mule-skinner, bull-whacker, cowboy, buffalo hunter and
outand-out badman rubbed shoulders. Orchestras blared, voices bellowed song, and boots thumped solidly on dance floors. The
whir of roulette wheels vied with the sprightly clatter of flung dice. The chink of bottle neck on glass rim echoed the ring
of the tossed gold piece. The afternoon rumble of Dodge was crescendoing to a star-quivering roar.

Brant dropped into the Long Branch saloon, run by Chalk Beeson and Bill Harris, and watched the famous Luke Short supervising
the gambling. The Long Branch was noted for high stakes and the tenseness of the play induced more than ordinary quiet. After
watching a poker game for a
while where white chips were worth twenty dollars each, Brant decided on a look-see south of the railroad tracks.

Here the turbulence was at its height. Cowboys, whooping and yowling, raced their horses along the street, clattering onto
the sidewalks at times, to the accompaniment of a wild scattering on the part of pedestrians. Somewhere sounded a stutter
of shots, possibly only an outburst of exuberance, possibly something more serious. The saloons were not so well lighted as
those on Front Street, but they were even more crowded. Gambling was not for so high stakes as in the Long Branch. As a recompense,
it was accompanied by more noise, more arg’fyin’ and more violence. The card sharps were just as adept, and deadlier than
their compatriots of the Main Stem.

Stepping into a quieter saloon, Brant was rather surprised to encounter Norman Kane. The Flying V owner greeted him with his
flashing smile and a pleasant nod.

“Boys are sort of whoopin’ it up,” he commented. “I came down to keep an eye on my hands. Reckon you’re here for the same
reason, eh?”

“Sort of,” Brant admitted, “but I like to see the fun, too.”

Kane made a wry face. “It’s likely not to be so funny before the night is over,” he predicted. “There are some hard characters
down here. Plenty of snake blood. They’re not all cowhands in for a bust.”

Brant nodded soberly. “Let’s have a drink,” he suggested. Kane was agreeable and they moved to the bar. They were discussing
the contents
of their glasses when a young cowhand hurried in through the swinging doors, paused and glanced keenly about. With an exclamation
of satisfaction, he strode up to Brant, who recognized one of his own riders.

“Boss,” he said, “I was huntin’ for you. Cooney said he saw you slide in here. There’s a place down on Bridge Street, close
to the river, where some of our boys are hangin’ out. There’s a bunch come in there and they aim to make trouble— clean out
the place good. They’re just waitin’ for a couple more of their outfit to show up. The boys would like to get out, but figger
if they try, trouble is liable to start.” He glanced at Kane as he finished speaking. “You’re the Flying V owner, ain’t you,
suh? There’s a couple of your boys in there, too. And I heard,” he added, “that the bunch is part of the Dutch Harry gang.”

“Thanks for letting me know about it, Ray,” Brant replied quietly. He turned to Kane. “Reckon we’re both in this,” he said.
“First off, we’d better notify the marshal. He’s on the lookout for the Harry bunch and will come along with us. That’ll put
the law on our side if anything busts loose.”

“Good notion,” applauded Kane. “Let’s go.”

Together they hurried to the marshal’s office. They found Tom Carney in, and alone.
He swore crisply when he heard what they had to say.

“I’ll head down there pronto,” he said. “My deputies are out somewhere, but I won’t wait for ’em.”

“We’ll trail along, if it’s agreeable with you,” Brant said.

“Good!” exclaimed Carney. “I’ll deputize you
both to help me in this business. I know the place your hand spoke about, Brant. All set? Here’s a pair of handcuffs for each
of you. Use ’em.”

They hurried out. Carney led the way down Bridge Street almost to the river. “This is the place,” he said, pausing before
a poorly lighted saloon from which came the sound of loud voices raised in argument, a bellowing curse and the thud of a fall.
“I’m scairt somethin’s due to bust loose any minute. Kane, you stay outside and don’t let anybody come up behind us. All set,
Brant? Let’s go!”

Shoulder to shoulder, the marshal and the Running W foreman pushed through the swinging doors. Outside, Norman Kane stood
slender and erect with watchful eyes, and hands close to his gun butts.