“I know.” She sniffed back the tears and moved out of his arms, because she didn’t want Benteen to think she was being childish. She should be looking forward to their new life together, not crying about leaving home, but it wasn’t easy. Partially turning so he couldn’t see, Lorna furtively wiped away the dampness of her cheeks. “You won’t forget to be at the church tomorrow morning at ten to talk to the reverend, will you?”
“I’ll be there,” Benteen stated. “I’m not going to let anyone throw a last-minute hitch in our wedding plans.”
Just for a little second, Lorna wished it could be postponed for a short while—until she could get over these jitters. But she didn’t mention it to Benteen. Several times she had sensed his impatience that the wedding wasn’t going to take place sooner.
It was dark when Benteen reached the camp, located near where the herd was being held. The two night riders on the first watch were circling the herd, riding slowly in opposite directions. The cattle were lying down, chewing their cuds. Benteen could see the moonlight shining on their horns. Somewhere off in the prairie, a coyote howled its wailing cry. A steer blew out a soft snort, but it was a sound of contentment rather than alarm.
An ease went through Benteen as he listened to one of the night riders crooning “The Texas Lullaby” to the cattle. Its quavering melody drifted over both ends of the scale, keeping to the slow, steady rhythm set by the walking horse. Dismounting, Benteen unsaddled his horse and tied it to the picket line where the night horses for the next three watches were staked. Carrying the saddle on his hip, he walked to the flickering campfire.
The chuck wagon was set up for business, the rear board lowered and supported by a pole propped in the ground. It exposed the partitioned cupboard with shelves and drawers for food and utensils and provided a worktable for the cook. Benteen noticed the tongue of the wagon was pointed at the Big Dipper, as it always would be for the rest of the drive. Just one of the many duties that went with the cook’s job. At every night camp, the tongue of the chuck wagon would point to the north, so no matter the weather the next day, the trail boss knew the direction to take.
The Big Dipper was the cowboy’s compass and his clock. As it revolved, its positions told the cowboy what time it was and marked off his two-hour watches on night herd. On cloudy nights, he had to guess at the time unless he was riding a night horse that had its own clock in its head and would head for camp when its tour of duty was up.
Leaving his saddle in the shadows just beyond the firelight where he would bed down for the night, Benteen crossed to the chuck wagon for a tin cup to fill with coffee. His seemingly idle glance took note of which riders were present and which were not.
“Shorty’s got first watch, does he?” he remarked to Rusty, and blew on the coffee he’d poured before he took a big sip. “I thought I recognized him singing to the cattle.”
“Shorty and Hank,” Rusty confirmed, and named the second rider on night herd.
“That Shorty sure as hell can sing,” a drover named Jonesy declared, and paused in his whittling of a stick to listen.
“What would a sonuvabitch like you know about it?” challenged a mocking voice from the shadows. “I’ll be goddamned if you could carry a tune in a crooked damned jug.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jonesy bristled at the criticism of his singing voice or lack of
one. “I sure as hell hope someone’s taught you another damned verse of ‘Sweet Betsy.’ If you sing that same sonuvabitchin’ one all this drive like ya did the last time, I’ll fix it so you don’t sing no more.”
“I didn’t get no damned complaint from any sonuvabitchin’ cow,” Zeke Taylor shot back.
A heat was building, and Benteen stepped in before tempers could flare. “Instead of arguing about your singing, both of you better start watchin’ your language.” He paused to let his hard glance make a sweep of the other riders at the camp circle. “That goes for all of you. When this drive gets under way, you’re going to have ladies in the camp. There’s some of you that can’t say a single sentence if it doesn’t have a ‘hell,’ a ‘damn,’ or a ‘sonofabitch’ included somewhere—and sometimes all three and one or two more. Save your cursing for the cattle. If you can’t do that, maybe you’d better keep your mouths shut around the womenfolk.”
“Hey, flapjaw, do you think you can manage that?” Jonesy taunted the talkative drover, Zeke Taylor.
“I know a helluva lot more about how to talk to a lady than you do,” he retorted.
“Pass the word to the others,” Benteen ordered. Besides the riders on night herd, four of the drovers had been given permission to spend the night in Fort Worth, with the understanding they’d be back at first light in condition for work if it meant being tied in the saddle. “No cursing around the women unless you want to ride drag for a month.”
The threatened punishment drew a grumble from the ranks, which Benteen ignored. On a cattle drive, three riders were usually assigned positions at the rear of the herd to prod the laggards and weaker steers into keeping up with the rest of the cattle. It was hot, dusty work, the least-wanted duty. In most cases, the drovers rotated the positions of drag, flank, and point so that each man fared equally.
Jessie Trumbo was leaning his slight frame against a rear wagon wheel by the chuck box. Benteen wandered over to a stand beside him and drank the strong coffee.
“Everything been quiet?” Benteen asked.
“Quiet as you can ask,” Jessie replied. There was a lengthy pause as he straightened to bite off a chaw of a plug and fit the wad into the inside pocket of his cheek. “The Ten Bar’s got a big herd together to drive north. They got ’em bedded down ‘bout five miles from us. Bull Giles is bossin’ it.”
“You talk to him?” Benteen swirled the swallow of coffee in the tin cup to mix in the dregs.
Jessie gave a slow nod. “Bull just happened to ride over this way. Claimed we’d be eatin’ his dust all the way to Kansas.”
“S’pose it would upset him if it was the other way around,” Benteen mused with a dry smile.
“Might.” There was a gleam in Jessie’s eyes.
Lorna’s mother accompanied them to the church the next morning. While the wedding couple met with the reverend, she saw to some last-minute details regarding the decorations. Nothing was being spared to make her daughter’s wedding, their only child, a special event. Clara Pearce filled all her time with preparations for the wedding so she wouldn’t have time to think about the empty days that would follow when her daughter was far, far away.
It was successfully blocked from her mind when Lorna and Benteen had been instructed to the minister’s satisfaction as to their respective roles in a Christian marriage. She walked to the rear of the church to rejoin them.
“Are you ready to leave, Mother?” Lorna asked. “Benteen has some errands he needs to do, but he wants to see us home first.”