This Calder Range (Calder Saga 1)

“Neither will a herd of thirsty Longhorns,” he replied. “Cut it.”

By the time the herd had nearly reached the night ground, the riders had gathered the cattle into a more compact herd so they weren’t strung out so far. Taking them to water, they spread the Longhorns into bunches to avoid crowding and pushing.

Benteen and Spanish had the barbed wire down by the time the herd reached the watering place. All hell started to break loose when the downed wire began tangling with hoof and horn.

Benteen cursed when he saw what was happening. “Stampede!” He recognized the warning signs a second before the first steer made its mad plunge that sent the whole pack on the run.

The ground rumbled with the thunder of their hooves. Horns popped and rattled as they clashed together. All other duties were forgotten. Benteen took time only to make certain the cattle were headed away from the wagons as he whipped his horse after the stampeding herd. Jonesy was racing just ahead of him, singing at the top of his lungs, “Rock of ages, cleft for me. Let me hide myself in thee.” Many cowboy sinners saw “the light” in the midst of a devil’s stampede. Some superstitious drovers believed a stampeding herd would respond only to hymns.

With Jonesy on a faster horse, Benteen let him overtake the leaders and ride alongside to begin turning them in a slow, wide circle. Luckily, it was a short run, lasting no more than five minutes—the thirsty cattle willing to be brought under control. The bawling started as they began to mill loosely, the riders taking care not to crowd them too tightly in the event of cattle in the center going down and being trampled.

Just when the herd seemed to have settled down, barking dogs started them moving nervously again. Benteen jerked his head toward the sound and saw a bunch of farmers rushing toward the water hole. His mouth thinned into an angry line.

“Jessie! Shorty!” He waved the two men to come with him and wheeled his horse away from the herd toward the oncoming farmers.

The rifle was in his scabbard. Benteen pulled it out and levered a shell into the firing chamber, taking aim at a slick-haired dog leading the pack. A rifle shot was likely to stampede the cattle again, but so were the dogs. He fired, knocking the first one back into the others. Behind him, Shorty and Jessie were pumping bullets into the pack. Within seconds, those that could still move had turned tail and were kiyipping back the way they’d come. Benteen faced his horse at the wagonload of farmers.

“You killed our dogs!” one cried.

“Did you put that fence up?” Benteen ignored the outraged protest.

“That’s our water!” a farmer shouted.

“Like hell it is. Trail herds have been watering there since the first steer was taken north.”

“You owe us for that fence you cut—and for every steer that took a drink,” another demanded.

“I’m not paying you to water my cattle,” Benteen snapped.

“We’ll see what the marshall has to say about that,” the first one threatened.

“You do that.”

There was a grumbled exchange among the farmers before the team was finally turned around. Benteen watched them go, not turning until they were out of sight. When he shoved the rifle into the scabbard of his saddle, he heard Shorty and Jessie do the same.

“Damn farmers!” Shorty spit. “We shoulda put a couple bullets in them.”

“Let’s get back to the cattle.” Benteen reined his horse toward the restless, uneasy herd milling nervously.

The wagons had reached the night’s campground well ahead of the herd. By that time, Lorna was deeply regretting that she had ever boasted to Benteen that she could manage the team. The four horses pulling their wagon were not the tractable animals that hauled her father’s freight wagon, and her arms ached until they were trembling from holding the reins. There weren’t any roads across the prairie, and after a day of being bounced all over the wagon seat, her body seemed so bruised and battered that there wasn’t a part of her that didn’t hurt. Grimy dust covered her face and clothes, adding to the discomfort.

She was in agony because she hadn’t relieved herself since the noon stop. Lorna climbed carefully down from the wagon seat, not jumping the last two feet, afraid the jar of landing would cause her to humiliate herself. She looked anxiously around. At the noon stop, there had been a small stand of trees where she’d been able to hide herself, but here there was nothing but grass in all directions. She couldn’t even see any bushes.

“I’ll unhitch the horses for you, Mrs. Calder,” a young voice said.

Turning with a start, Lorna saw the dark-haired lad standing on the other side of the team. She recognized him as the one who had driven Mary’s wagon that morning. He couldn’t have been more than two years younger than she was. Lorna felt very young and foolish at the moment, younger than he was, but she was a married woman, so she couldn’t let him know.

“Thank you.” Her smile was hesitant. She doubted if she could have unharnessed this headstrong team without something going wrong.

Walking stiffly, Lorna crossed to the Stanton wagon. She felt less inadequate when she saw Mary being helped by the horse wrangler. The bow-legged man drove the team free from the wagon tongue, handling them from the ground.

“Mary,” Lorna called to her newfound friend and adviser.

The stocky woman came to meet her; a sharpness in her look that was somehow gentled by her tired smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” If her other matter wasn’t so urgent, Lorna would have continued the idle chatter. Instead, she lowered her voice so none of the three men in camp could overhear. “What do we do about relieving ourselves?”

For an instant there was silence. Lorna dropped her gaze to the prairie sod, certain she had disgraced herself by speaking of bodily functions, but she hadn’t known what else to do.