When the battle finally ended, and they had the herd running toward the previous night’s bedding ground and away from the river, Les slumped in the saddle, more exhausted than she remembered ever being. How simple life had been before this drive, how calm and predictable and leisurely. Now here she was, filthy, so tired she could hardly think, sunburned, thirsty, deprived of privacy and any hint of comfort, her nostrils filled with the heat and stink of cattle.
That’s what she was thinking as she gradually became aware of an unusual warmth flowing down her left leg, followed by the realization of wetness. When she looked down, sunlight glistened on bright red blood soaking her trouser leg. She stared and blinked, astonished that she didn’t recall getting slashed, had felt nothing.
Now she did. Pain, hot and searing, arched through her body, and she gasped and gripped her thigh above the gash in her trousers. Her eyelids fluttered and she swayed and sagged then slipped off her horse, falling to the trampled ground.
Rage shook Dal’s body, communicating to his horse, making the animal restless and prancy. The buckskin also reacted with nervous edginess to the sight and smell of the dead cattle strewn along the banks of the river.
“How many?” he snapped, staring at the wagon that had set off this disaster. The near side was smashed. Goods littered the ground. Beyond the wagon the few animals who had managed to get around it grazed on lush spring grasses.
Caleb Webster shifted on his saddle and wiped a sleeve across his forehead. “I count forty-two carcasses. We’ll probably find more when we check farther down.”
“Son of a bitch!” Dal bit down on his back teeth hard enough to make his lower face ache. “Get Drinkwater and your brother and move that wagon out of there.”
Jerking savagely on the reins, he turned the buckskin away from the carcasses, rode upstream to a point where the water was clear and crossed there, emerging on the far side with boots and pant legs dripping.
Grady waited beside his horse, studying the dead steers and shaking his head. “Christ a’mighty,” he murmured, then spit a stream of tobacco juice between his front teeth. “We can butcher up a couple, but no way can we make use of ’em all.”
“What the hell happened?” Dal demanded, jerking his head toward the wagon. “How did that wagon get there just as we ran the leads into the water?”
“Me and Peach got the wheels back on the chuck wagon and moved it and the remuda off that way.” Grady nodded toward the camp in the distance. “Our observers”—he paused to spit, contempt in the gesture—”crossed closer to town. Luther and Hamm rode in together.” He pushed back his hat and gave Dal a long expressionless look. “Caldwell drove the stuck wagon.”
Dal’s thigh muscles tightened like cords of iron and the buckskin danced to one side.
“First I noticed something wrong,” Grady continued, glancing at the mired wagon, “was when I seen Caldwell unhitching the horses. With no way to move the wagon, the minute those horses moved out the fat was in the fire.” He let a long beat pass and then added, “Course, if he hadn’t gotten the horses out, maybe we’d a still wrecked on the crossing plus had us two dead horses.”
Without a word, Dal turned and rode toward the campsite. Every cell in his body urged him to close the distance fast and beat the living hell out of Caldwell. He forced himself to proceed at a trot, tried to gain control of his fury.
Accidents happened on every drive. And plain bad luck, that happened, too. But a chain of coincidences? He wasn’t a man who believed in coincidence. Yet Caldwell just happened to be driving the wagon Luther Moreland usually drove. And Caldwell just happened to drive it along the riverbank instead of going directly to the campsite. And the wagon just happened to dip near enough to the bank that the wheels sank in mud. And this just happened to occur at the precise spot where the herd would cross and at the exact moment the lead steers entered the river.
He tied the buckskin to the wheel of the chuck wagon, then strode toward the observers’ camp. Luther, Ward, and Caldwell stood when he approached and, to their credit, both Luther and Ward were white-faced, and obviously shaken.
Caldwell wore a small half smile. “I guess you’re looking for me. Sorry for the trouble,” he said smoothly, pushing back the edges of his jacket to hook his thumbs in his vest pockets. “I wanted to watch the crossing. Guess I picked the wrong spot to do it. By the time I realized my mistake,” he shrugged, “the wagon was stuck.”
It was a lie that couldn’t be disproved, so Dal didn’t even try. He hit Caldwell in the stomach, then as he doubled over, Dal caught him in the jaw hard enough to lay him out. His fury was so great that he would have kicked Caldwell’s ribs toward his spine if Luther hadn’t gripped him from behind.
“What happened was an accident,” Luther said sharply.
Dal spun and thrust his face forward. “Why the hell was Caldwell driving your wagon?”