“He’d be a fool to sell.” Loman Janes shook his head at the thought. “Why should he? He’s got no reason to sell when he can use it himself.”
“He might if he suddenly needed money,” Boston suggested, and thoughtfully tapped the ash from the cigar. “A man never knows when the sky might fall in on him. It could happen even when it’s looking the brightest.”
Loman Janes was relieved to hear that kind of talk. For a minute he thought he had misjudged Boston. He didn’t respect a man who turned from a fight, but Boston was just being cautious. Loman knew about feuds. His family came from Tennessee, so he didn’t see why Boston thought it was something to be avoided. But Boston was the brains of the outfit.
“What do you want done?” Loman asked, and downed the balance of the whiskey in his glass.
Boston took a puff on his cigar. “Got a match?”
Line camps were outposts of the ranch, forming an invisible perimeter to be ridden by cowboys unlucky enough to be assigned the lonely job. The Triple C was already too big to be manned solely from the central ranch quarters that the cowboys had already dubbed the Homestead. Since cattle had no notion of boundaries and had roaming tendencies, line riders formed a kind of living fence, patrolling between their camp and the next one up or down the line. They held in their own cattle and turned back the neighbor’s.
It had been a while since Benteen had checked on Shorty. He rode into the prevailing wind, blowing hot, dry air from the southwest. He could smell the smoke from Shorty’s campfire when he was still two miles away.
Benteen wasn’t sure the exact moment when he realized the bruise on the southern sky wasn’t gathering stormclouds. It was billowing smoke. The dry grasses of the plains had become a vast tinderbox, making them ripe for fire.
He whipped his horse into a flat-out run, racing straight for the growing clouds of black smoke. The red line of the fast-creeping flames was in sight when he spied Shorty trying to drive a crazed bunch of Longhorns across a creek. It was the only place that offered a natural firebreak for miles. Benteen swung his horse toward the creek to lend Shorty a hand.
Six of the steers took off, and they had to let them go in order to get the other forty-odd head across the creek. Once they had the cattle on the other side, they continued to drive them, gathering more animals as they went along—coyotes, rabbits, antelopes. A mile and a half from the creek, they left the herd to circle back to make another sweep for any cattle they may have missed.
A haze of smoke and ash filled the air to choke them. Benteen tied his bandanna around his nose and mouth to filter out some of it. The wind seemed stronger, the heat from the fire creating its own draft.
He shouted to Shorty, “I don’t think the creek will stop it! The wind’s too strong!”
Shorty nodded and pointed to Benteen’s right. A finger of smoke was rising from the grassy bank on this side of the creek. From the smoke, a tongue of flame shot up and began devouring the dry grass.
“We’ll never hold it here without help!” Benteen waved Shorty away from the creek.
About a mile away, a jumble of rocks had been thrust from the earth. Its natural barrier would flank the wildfire on one side. Benteen pulled in his horse and brought it to a plunging halt. The bandanna had fallen to his chin.
“Here comes Barnie and Ramon!” Shorty called to draw Benteen’s attention to the riders galloping into view.
“Shoot a couple of those steers,” Benteen ordered, and reached for the rope tied to his saddle.
Shorty wheeled his horse after a small group of bawling steers trotting aw
ay from the smell of smoke. Benteen watched Shorty ride up to the first steer and drop it with a pistol shot through the back of the head. Almost able to feel the heat of the fire, Benteen glanced over his shoulder to see the steadily advancing red glow. The black smoke nearly blocked out the sun as it filled the sky, towering above them with ominous intent. He rode over to the two dead steers to lend Shorty a hand.
The steers were skinned on one side and ropes were tied to two of their feet. When Barnie and the Mexican vaquero, Ramon, reached them, all Shorty had to do was hand them each a rope. They galloped off, dragging the bloody carcass of the steer to the fire line. Benteen and Shorty mounted their horses and wrapped the free end of the ropes around their saddle horns and took off with the second carcass, dragged between them.
When they reached the narrow line of flames, Benteen jammed his spurs into the panicking chestnut and leaped the horse over the fire onto the hot and blackened ground. Running parallel with the flames, he was on one side and Shorty was on the other. The bloodywet carcass was towed down the length of the flames, smothering it dead as it went.
The heat was blistering, drying the sweat from his body the instant it reached his skin. He choked from the smoke, his lungs straining for air. There was no thinking, only doing. The fire had to be stopped. The stench of burning blood and air was powerful.
Benteen and Shorty had to frequently change sides so the horses wouldn’t be crippled by prolonged running on the burned earth. When it seemed they would ride in this fiery hell forever, the flames were out. Benteen unwrapped the rope around the saddle horn and let it fall, leaving behind the charred remains of the steer. The four riders came together in a small cluster and let their trembling horses rest. Their faces and clothes were blackened with smoke and ash, its smell hanging heavy on them. Benteen took a long drink from his canteen. The water in it was hot, but it was wet.
“How many cattle do you figure we lost?” His voice was a croaking sound, and he took another drink.
“Fifty … a hundred head. Maybe more,” Shorty answered. “I know there was a big bunch trapped in a draw.”
Barnie was having trouble gathering enough spit to lick his cigarette paper together. Finally he gave up and carried it to his mouth, indifferent to the tobacco spilling out. He felt around in his pockets, then looked at the others.
“Anybody got a light?” he asked.
“You serious?” Shorty stared. “If you want to smoke, just breathe in, you stupid sonuvabitch.”
Benteen was too tired to laugh.
Webb ran ahead of him to the cabin, hardly able to see where he was going with Benteen’s hat falling down around his ears. He pushed the door open, then turned to wait.