Cowboy Roundup

The Spring at Sloan Pond by Lee Crittenden-3

Out near the ravine, there was a brisk wind blowing, sweeping thin clouds across the moon. It flowed across the rocks and down into the canyon like a river, gusted off through the shadows, rustling the sage. An hour before sunrise, it carried the trample and bawl of driven steers.

Nick stiffened, reached out to grip Hart’s arm. The boy had been dozing, but now he snapped awake, reached for his Winchester.

“Wait a minute,” said Nick. “What are we going to do?”

They were crouched behind a wall of rock on the lip of the ravine, a spot Hart had chosen for obvious cause. In fact, the reasons were so obvious Nick was some worried.

“I’m not going to murder those punchers,” he said, and caught the glint of moonlight off Hart’s cheekbone as the boy turned his head.

“Nick,” he said. “You can’t afford to let ‘em get on your place!”

“Raidy…” Nick said, half afraid to argue now.

Hart groaned in aggravation, dropped his head against the rock. “All right,” he said then. “Listen. You got a choice—the stock or the men.”

Nick knew what he meant. They could shoot the steers before they pushed through the fence—or, they could shoot at the men. Once the punchers went down, the stock would scatter. He felt cold, thinking about it that way, but he had to decide what to do.

“The men,” he said. They’d made a choice themselves, after all. “But no surprises!”

There were maybe ten steers and five cowboys, dark shapes on shadow horses that whistled and shouted at the cows, pushing them at the mouth of the ravine. The steers bawled and turned when they hit the sagging wire, but the men forced them back.

Hart stood up. “Stop!” he yelled sharply. “Get away from the fence.”

He was answered by a flash of gunfire, and he dropped behind the rocks again, snapped off a shot of his own. Lead spanged off the rocks around them, hot and heavy. The rifle in Nick’s hands kicked and bucked. The cows bawled and skidded, throwing up dust. A horse reared and screamed, crashed over. Then suddenly it was quiet.

The steers had made a break for open country, and most of the cowboys, too, it seemed. Only two of them lay in the dirt, Nick thought, with the dust settling slowly over them.

Hart muttered something under his breath.

“What?” said Nick.

“I said, ‘Make you happy?’“

“You okay?” asked Nick.

“Yeah,” said Hart. “Stay here and cover me. I’ll go see who’s down.”

He slid down from the rocks and disappeared. Nick identified his shape in a minute, slipping through the shadows below, and after a while he was back.

“Red Slocum,” he said. “And Tom Daw—both dead. We couldn’t have done any better shootin’, Nick.”

He took off his hat, wiped a sleeve over his face. Then he took off his scarf and started to tie it around his arm.

Nick started. “Are you hurt?”

“Yeah. It comes of warnin’ folks you’re about to shoot.”

Nick cursed, fumbled out a match.

“Leave it alone,” Hart said. “It’s all right.”

“This isn’t going to solve anything,” said Nick.

“Yes, it is,” the boy said. “Those two bein’ down will cut the heart out of Eisner. And I’ll fix it so they won’t come at you again.”

Something in the way he said it scared Nick.

“What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Hart. He pushed up, headed for his horse. “We took care of things here, so go on into town and get your dad.” He gathered the reins, swung up on the horse.

“Wait,” Nick said, catching the bit, and then he had to decide what he wanted to say. “Are you coming back?”

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

Nick thought about it. To hell with old Isaac Bain—and Joy, too, if she wanted to side with him. “You’re welcome any time,” he said.

Hart sat there, staring at him through the dark. “Thanks,” he said finally. “Maybe I will.”

* * * *

Later in town, Nick heard Raidy had shot Lou Burke, and disappeared into the hills.

He picked up Joy and the old man at the hotel. Everything seemed quiet on the range, no sign of Buckley or Eisner, and he wondered if Hart was right—that everything was over now. That night when he went to bed, there was a brown envelope under the pillow. Inside was the mortgage, marked “paid in full.”