This Calder Range (Calder Saga 1)

Benteen saw the cowboy hat floating downstream, then caught a glimpse of Andy’s head as he bobbed to the surface. The coil of cattle was between him and the rider. Jonesy was closer.

From the north bank, water splashed as Spanish rode his horse into the river to come to their aid, while Jessie held the part of the herd that had already made the crossing.

When Jessie threw a rope for Andy, Benteen directed his efforts to breaking the mill. There wasn’t time to think of the personal risk or danger. There was only the cattle and saving them. Spanish rode his horse close to the center and slid off to begin climbing across the backs of animals to the middle. With border curses and flailing fists, he began driving a wedge in the circle of horns. Benteen’s pressure finished the job, and the steers were once again heading in the same direction toward the north bank.

Benteen’s horse labored onto the bank, trembling and snorting. He was breathing hard, too, but his mind was still on the cattle and getting the rest of the herd across. Two of the flank riders accompanied the stream of horns across. As Shorty Niles rode by Benteen, his face was white and strained.

“The sonofabitches didn’t make it. The stupid sonofabitches,” he cursed, but it was a pain-filled voice.

Benteen looked at the last place where he’d seen Jonesy. His riderless horse was on the south bank, shaking itself like a wet dog. There was no sign of Jonesy or Andy Young. Benteen drank in a deep breath and held it, shutting his eyes before he let it out in a long, wavering sigh.

No attempt was made to look for the bodies of the cowboys until the entire herd had made the crossing and been bunched a half-mile from the river. When they searched downstream, they found the bodies floating a mile away. In all, the mill at the river crossing had taken a heavy toll. Two riders dead and seventy head of cattle drowned.

The bodies were wrapped in tarp and carried to a bluff overlooking the river to be buried. It was a solemn service; by necessity, a brief one, too. Lorna stared at all the emotionless faces of the men standing by the graves, hats in hand. Ely Stanton had fashioned a pair of crude crosses out of tree limbs and rawhide to mark the burial sites, but no names were carved into them. Someone had plucked their hats from the river, and they were hanging on the upright beams of the crosses. No cowboy went anywhere without his hat. He ate with it, slept with it, and died with it.

As trail boss, it was Benteen’s duty to say a few words over them. “They were good men, but You know that. Give them good horses to ride and a clear sky overhead. Amen.”

“Amen,” Lorna repeated, but she was the only one.

Her eyes were bright; a thread of fear trembled over her at the mortality of humans. She didn’t know Jonesy—no one had told her his full name—or Andy Young very well, but they’d both been alive at breakfast this morning, bringing her their plates to be washed. Now they were dead. Yet she seemed to be the only one affected by it.

There was a head-down shuffling-away from the graves. She heard Vince Garvey murmur to another drover, “When I cross over an’ hear some angel singin’ off-key, I guess I’ll know it’s Jonesy. Never could sing a note.”

“Hey, Shorty, would you teach me another verse to ‘Sweet Betsy’?” Zeke Taylor asked.

“Sure.” Shorty nodded.

Lorna watched them filing to their horses. “Doesn’t it bother them?” She hadn’t realized she’d

murmured the question aloud until Rusty spoke up.

“Nearly everyone here has ridden out to see the elephant,” he said. “He’s come close to shakin’ hands with Death many a time. They just don’t let their feelings show when one of their kind meets his Maker. They know about dying, but they know about living, too.”

Rusty walked away without waiting to see if she understood his explanation. Mary paused by the graves and laid a bouquet of wildflowers on each of them, and bowed her head in a silent prayer.

The flowers would die. The elements and the animais that roamed the wild country would soon knock down the crosses, and the grass would cover the graves. Lorna turned and ran to the wagon at the bottom of the slope, unaware of Benteen’s approach or the tightness of his jaw when she turned and fled.

Resolutely Benteen went after her, prepared for another emotional display over the death of the two cowboys. There were tears in her eyes when he reached the wagon, but determination sharpened her tightly drawn features.

“Lorna.”

“You needn’t worry. I’m not going to cry like a child.” She climbed onto the wagon seat and began searching frantically for something. The minute she found it, she hopped to the ground.

“What are you doing?” Benteen frowned.

“I’m going to plant two of the cuttings from my mother’s roses on their graves so they’ll always have a marker.” Her dark eyes challenged him to object.

The gesture made his voice husky. “Make it quick. We’ve got to be moving out.”

12

With Texas and the Red River behind them, the drive began its trek through the Indian territory. This section of the Chisholm Trail between the Red River and the Cimarron had been notorious for the raids on cattle herds by Indians and white renegades alike in the early years of the trail’s history. Although the risk of an attack had lessened, the men kept a sharp eye out for trouble just the same. With the deaths of Andy and Jonesy, the drive was shorthanded, which meant extra duty for everyone.

A week into the Indian nation, Lorna was washing dishes from the noon meal. The arduous life was beginning to show its effects. She had lost weight, taking the girlish plumpness from her cheeks. In spite of the bonnet she wore most of the day, her complexion had lost its milky-white color, burned by the sun and wind to a golden brown. Her hands were chapped and rough from being immersed in water often high in alkali. Sometimes when she looked in the small mirror in the wagon, she doubted if her own mother would recognize her.

It was a small consolation that Mary’s dresses were loose around her waist, too. But Lorna noticed that her sisterly friend appeared to be weathering it better than she was. With a sigh, she turned back to the wreck pan, washed another dish, and handed it to Mary to dry.

There was a vague awareness that someone was watching her. She looked up. Terror leaped through her blood. A half-naked Indian was standing by the chuck wagon, his face and chest smeared with warpaint. All those frightening stories Sue Ellen had told her about white women being taken captive by Indians came rushing to her mind. She dropped the half-washed plate into the water and screamed.