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Chapter 6: Cattle Drive

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Michael entered the cabin after the taxman left. Sadie looked up from the washstand she was setting up by the stove.

“You are angry.” It was not a question.

Michael released a breath through his nose.

“I have to go to Lander tomorrow.”

“Why?” She tilted her head.

He frowned. “I’ve got business.”

Sadie stared at him, and he avoided her gaze.

“What kind of business?”

“Not somethin’ to worry your pretty head over.”

Her hands found her hips. “Michael Vincent, do not patronize me.”

He pulled his hat from his head, avoiding her eyes.

“I am not being patronizin’.”

“You are.” She turned back to the washboard, setting it in the tub with more force than necessary.

He closed his eyes. He did not want to fight with her. He did not want her worrying about money.

“I have to talk to Nevels about the lumber.”

She pulled his good shirt from her basket and tossed it in.

“You owe a large sum?” Her voice was tight, but he had no idea if it was because of the debt, or his near refusal to speak of it.

“Large enough.”

Her sharp gaze found his, her hand stilling on the kettle.

“Is the land in trouble?”

He shook his head. “Land is fine. It’s the cows.”

She frowned. Then went back to her task. Steam filled the air between them as she poured the hot water in with the laundry.

“Why the cows?”

He sighed. “Because that is what Wyoming taxes, and the house, and the barn…” He hesitated. “And me now.”

Surprise filled her face. “You pay a tax upon yourself?”

He nodded. “I am over twenty-one years.”

She set the kettle back on the stove.

“So you owe for the lumber, and taxes?”

He sat in Wyatt’s rocking chair, picking at the band in his hat.

“That about sums it up.”

She came to stand in front of him.

“How much?”

“Sadie—”

“No, I am your wife. For richer or poorer. How. Much?”

He met her gaze. “Fifty-two.”

The kettle let out a low whistle, but she did not move to silence it. Her hands found her apron. Then she sat slowly on the bed across from him.

“Fifty-two?” Her face had gone pale.

“I am gonna get work.”

She nodded, as if the matter were settled. “I know you will, you’re a good man. You’re my man.”

Michael lifted his eyes to meet hers. She looked at him with such trust he swallowed.

He only hoped he could live up to the faith she had just placed in him.

~

The next morning, Nevels looked up from his ledger to acknowledge Michael standing in the doorway to the lumber mill office.

“You missed Saturday.”

Michael pulled his hat from his head. “Pa needed buryin’.”

Nevels’ head came up at that. Something flickered in his eyes and was gone. “My condolences.”

He tapped the ink pen once on the inkwell and then continued to write. “I have my own books to keep balanced. But I can give ya thirty days to start on the interest.”

Michael felt something loosen behind his ribs. “I am obliged. Would ya have any other work maybe?”

Nevels looked up sharply again, studied Michael’s face, and then returned to his ledger. “Would that I did. Work is a hard thing to come by in these parts.”

Michael nodded and put his hat back on his head.

“If I have any openings, I’ll be sure to let you know.” The lumberman spoke before dismissing him.

Michael left the office and made his way down the street to the Lander Saloon. He refused to drink, but if he was going to find work, it would be here.

He entered the establishment and the bartender gave him a nod. The place was dim in the daylight. Only a few tables in use. Smoke rose in columns from the rolled cigarettes of three cowboys. The oldest nodded at Michael. Lester Rockwell.

“Vincent, how’s yer place gettin’ on these days?”

Michael pulled up a chair and waved the offered bottle of whiskey away. “Pa’s dead.”

The bottle stopped mid-pour, Rockwell’s jaw tightened. “I see.”

Michael sighed. “Got the tax papers.”

The cowboy on the right, Rockwell’s son, Ethan, snorted. “You and everyone else.”

Michael clasped his hands. “Pa was behind.”

“Everyone is behind. These last years have been hard on all of us.”

The words were spoken as fact, no pity needed. Deeper in the saloon a woman laughed.

Rockwell shifted. “Thinking about drivin’ a herd to Denver.”

Michael’s head came up. “In the autumn?”

Rockwell shrugged. “Eighteen a head for steers, twenty-three for good grass-fed beef.”

Michael considered the numbers. “I got six yearling steers I could drive.”

Rockwell nodded. “I got seventeen. Rupert has eleven. We go all in together. We got a higher chance of makin’ Denver.”

Michael rubbed a hand over his jaw. “We got to cross the Red Desert. Not much out there, not much out there at all.”

Rockwell nodded. “We’ll have to carry firewood.”

“Weather killed Pa.” Michael said.

That sobered the men at the table.

“It was a freak storm. God rest his soul.” Rockwell let the words settle.

Michael shrugged. “Sure, but this is Wyoming in October.”

Rockwell studied him. “And taxes are still due in January.”

The woman laughed again, as if mocking the reality gripping every man there.

After a moment of consideration, Michael set his hat on the table. “All right, I’m in.”

~

Sadie was quiet at supper, filling his plate and waiting. He took a bite of her stew, letting the flavors of onion, potato, and salted beef swirl over his tongue.

He sat back watching her face.

“I couldn’t find work in Lander.”

Her eyes met his and she lowered her spoon.

“What does that mean for us?”

Michael hunched his shoulders and stared hard at his stew.

“Some of the neighbors are planning a drive to Denver.”

She was quiet. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I’ll be takin’ six head from the herd to Colorado.”

She went still. “Alone?”

He shook his head. “The other ranchers will go too.”

“Can I go?”

He sat back. “Sadie, a cattle drive is no place for a woman. Much less one with winter comin’ on.”

Her face flushed. “You’re leaving me.” Her voice was cold.

He set his spoon down with a clunk.

“Don’t be like that.”

Her shoulders began to creep up. “I am not being like anything.”

He took a deep breath. Counting before answering. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“I don’t want to be left behind.”

“I am not leavin’ you behind.”

“Aren’t you?”

He placed his hands flat on the table, the pain from a splinter serving to keep him focused.

“If I don’t do this, we will lose the herd.”

“Then let me help.”

His voice had dropped. “I need ya here, Sadie. I need someone keeping the other livestock fed and the hearth burnin’ while I am away. That’s how ya help.”

She pursed her lips.

“How long?”

“Six weeks at most.”

“What if I need help while you’re gone?”

It was a fair question. Michael considered. “Yeagers are the closest. I’ll stop by tomorrow, make sure they know I’ll be off the ranch. Colby is a good man. I’ll leave Bliss so you can ride if you need.”

She studied her hands. “I don’t know if I can saddle her.”

Michael had not thought of that.

“I’ll make sure Colby can check every few days.” The answer was hollow.

She tapped one finger on the table.

“Six weeks,” she said.

“Six weeks.”

She closed her eyes. “I’ll manage,” she whispered.

And Michael hated that she would, and that she had to.

~

Three days later the sky dawned clear with a mild breeze from the south.

Michael finished cinching the buckle on the saddle bags. Sadie brought out his bedroll.

The sky was beginning to pink, and the light caught the red in her hair.

He took it from her and tied the bedroll. The steers he had separated from the herd lowed in the pen.

He reached for the reins and she snagged his sleeve.

“Come home.”

He turned to her, removed his glove and cupped her cheek.

“Six weeks.”

Tears gathered in her eyes, but she didn’t cry. She just leaned in for a kiss.

“Six weeks,” she whispered against his lips.

He pulled her in tight for a heartbeat, before forcing himself to drop his arms and let go.

She stepped back, and he mounted the bay. He leaned down and lowered the latch on the gate. The steers rumbled out as he whistled to the herd dog, Tick. Sadie walked to the porch and lifted her hand.

At the ridge, Michael turned once in the saddle. She was still there on the porch. He raised his arm. She waved. As the sun burst free from the horizon, Michael turned in the saddle and rode away.

~

The first three days of the drive were smooth enough that Michael let himself breathe. Frost glittered the ground as the sun came up.

The men would pull themselves from bedrolls. Drink leftover coffee over the fire. Thawing bones leached of warmth in the night, and chew hardtack as they mounted up.

By midday the warmth of the sun bore down to make dust curl from the trail. It collected in folds of skin, clothes, and behind their teeth.

None of them wanted to push the cattle more than ten miles a day. Any more and the precious fat the animals had accumulated would start to come off.

Grazing was harder to come by this time of year, which forced them to stop well before the sun went down in the evenings. A cold wind caught them more than once off the Medicine Bow range, as they continued to push south and east.

Not one man was under the illusion that time was on their side.

The fourth night Michael drew second watch, his repeater across his knees.

The other men had long since bedded down, but the cattle were restless. Tick raised his head. A low growl and then a bark sounded in the animal’s throat. Michael’s bay nickered softly under him.

“Easy,” he whispered, patting her neck.

Over the wind Michael heard the unmistakable sound of a howl in the desert. Wolves had caught the scent of the herd.

Rockwell sat straight up from his bedroll.

“Wolves,” he called.

Michael lifted his rifle, urging his mare forward with his knees. The other men around the fire were already reaching for their own weapons.

Tick shot to his feet, barking once, and ran straight into the dark.

Cows bellowed as they were suddenly charged by a grey shadow from the night.

Michael urged his horse into a gallop as the wolf cut a yearling steer from the herd.

He raised the rifle and took a shot, whistling for Tick. A blur in his motion, the hound circled, nipping at the kicking heels of the frightened steer. The wolf, frightened by the noise of Michael’s rifle, ran back into the dark.

Michael whistled again over the cacophony of wolves and gunfire from the men at the fire. He rode the bay along the flank of the herd, signaling Tick.

The dog turned and with a burst of speed flew past another lunging wolf three times his size to ward another calf off from leaving the circle.

Rockwell took the shot and the predator retreated.

Michael kept the bay between the dark side of the herd and the circling pack. Tick yelped once, then reappeared in the glow of the fire. The pack had not found easy prey and now slunk back into the shadows, howling their displeasure.

Michael whistled to Tick, who gathered the bawling cattle into a tighter group. He pulled the mare to a halt. Rockwell nodded to him from by the fire.

“You did well, Vincent.”

Michael took a deep breath and held it to calm the drumming of his heart against his ribs. He nodded toward the older man.

The cowboys worked to resettle the cattle, and Michael crawled onto his bedroll, snapping his fingers at Tick. The cattle dog lolled his tongue and lay down beside his master. Michael ran a hand down his coat, checking for bites.

“Yer a good boy, Tick. A real good boy.”

The dog whined once and settled his head on his paws, and Michael finally fell into a well-earned sleep, with his hand on Tick’s head and Sadie in his mind.