This Calder Range (Calder Saga 1)

“I don’t push too easy,” Benteen replied. On the surface, the exchange seemed to be an idle one, holding no heat, yet Lorna sensed some undercurrent running between them.

“That’s the way I always had it figured,” the big man agreed. “’Course I had thought Boston would get some opposition over the Cee Bar.”

“It wasn’t my play, and Pa had already cashed in his chips before Boston picked up his winnings,” he stated.

“Yeah, I heard you was headed for Montana Territory.” Giles nodded. “Reckon I might take another look at that country after I deliver these cows in Dodge City.” But he was looking straight at Lorna when he said it, leaving the impression that she was what he’d be going to see.

Lorna blushed a little, feeling the sharpness of Benteen’s gaze upon her. She felt the fluttering of her pulse and didn’t know which man to blame for it. When Giles glanced at Benteen, there was something in his eyes that dared Benteen to object.

“Have you met my wife?” Again there was emphasis on the possessive word.

“Yes, I introduced myself when I rode up,” he admitted. “I hope you’re taking good care of her, ’cause there’s bound to be somebody else around willin’ to do the job.”

“Namely you?” Benteen challenged in a cool, smooth voice.

“An ugly brute like me?” Giles laughed.

Lorna failed to notice that he didn’t deny it, although Benteen did. “I’m sure you underrate your own worth, Mr. Giles,” she insisted. It reminded her too much of the way Sue Ellen was always putting herself down because of her plain looks.

“Now you are being kind, Mrs. Calder.” Such flawless manners seemed so incongruous coming from such a rough-looking man. His attention swung back to Benteen. “I think I’ll take a look-see at the river myself.” He backed his sorrel horse up a few feet, then reined it toward the river ford.

When the Ten Bar trail boss was out of hearing, Benteen demanded, “What did you say to him before I came?”

“Practically nothing. Why?” Lorna frowned.

“You must have said or done something. A man doesn’t look at a married woman the way Giles looked at you unless he’s been given a reason to think his interest was welcome.” His gaze was narrow, punching holes in her newly found self-esteem. “You were looking quite pleased about something when I rode up.”

“He had paid me a compliment—something I rarely hear anymore,” she retorted a little snappishly.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I have been busy lately.” He matched her testiness.

“Why? Because you’ve been bossing this drive?” Lorna gave him a cool look. “Mr. Giles has been busy bossing a drive, too, but that didn’t keep him from saying something nice to me.”

“It’s probably been three weeks since he’s seen a woman.”

“And I suppose it makes a difference because you’ve seen me every day and he hasn’t,” she challenged. “Or maybe Mr. Giles knows how to make a woman feel good about herself and you only know how to make her feel foolish and ignorant.”

Lorna slapped the buckskin with the reins and sent it galloping back over the route they had traveled to the river. She knew Benteen was angry, but so was she. She hadn’t encouraged Bull Giles and she resented the implication that she had.

That night, Benteen assigned himself to the second shift of night herd and spread out a bedroll on the ground outside the wagon so he could be easily wakened. Lorna hadn’t spoken to him since they’d reached camp, and he was damned if he was going to make the first move. The next morning he blamed his irritability on the shortness of the night.

The wagons were sent ahead to cross the Red before the herd. Once the Longhorns had the morning stretch and grazed a short while, Benteen made a circling wave of his hat over his head to signal the men to move them out. The point riders picked up the motion and passed the signal down the line.

The brindle steer quickly shouldered his way to the lead. It wasn’t long until the herd was nicely strung out, a multicolored ribbon of hide and horn moving along. The cattle were walking freely toward the water, at this point drifting, not driven. There had been no water at last night’s bedground, and this morning they were thirsty.

When the brindle and his immediate followers waded in to drink, the drovers tightened ranks to shove the rest of the herd after them and force the lead group into the river. Jessie Trumbo on right point swam his horse in front of the brindle to show him the way to the other side.

“Come on and follow me!” Benteen heard Jessie call to the steer. “Come on, you captain of this sea of horns!”

The swimming Longhorns made a strange spectacle. The mud-red river hid their bodies under the water, leaving exposed only the heads with their sweeping rack of long horns. The cowboys pressed to keep the herd compact, not allowing a gap to appear in the flow of horns.

The first steers reached the opposite bank while the swing men, Jonesy and Andy Young, rode into the river on either side of the swimming cattle. The flank and drag riders continued to push from behind. From his vantage point on the riverbank, Benteen watched the proceedings, alert to anything that might threaten this smooth crossing. Sometimes cowboys never knew what would startle a cow—an eddy, a submerged tree branch, or the cry of a whippoorwill. Andy was letting his side of the herd drift too far downstream, where there were patches of quicksand that could swallow a horse or steer in minutes. Benteen shouted to him above the din of bawling beefs. It was acknowledged with a wave.

Something went wrong in midstream. Benteen never saw what it was. Suddenly the cattle started milling in a circle, trying to turn and swim back to the bank they’d left, but the rest of the herd was being pushed into them.

It had happened quickly—and it had to be broken up just as quickly, or the animals in the middle would be drowned in the crush of churning bodies. Jonesy had already seen it and was swimming his horse directly at the tangled mass, hitting and yelling at the excited beasts to turn them toward the north bank. Benteen spurred his horse into the river as Andy Young turned his mount toward the mill. A steer, swimming in a blind panic, rammed into Andy’s horse. It floundered, unseating its rider.

“Andy’s down!” Jonesy shouted.