Longhorn Empire
Authors: Bradford Scott
EMPIRE
Bradford Scott
LEISURE BOOKS
NEW YORK CITYOld John Webb didn’t know it, but he was looking upon the strengthening current of a flood that was to topple institutions,
change history, influence the destiny of a nation and leave its indelible mark upon the habits, characteristics and ambitions
of a people. The era in which Webb was taking a prominent part would in no great time disrupt his own orderly and contented
life and bring turbulence to the vast domain wherein he was a veritable overlord with the powers and privileges of a feudal
chieftain.
Young Austin Brant, with the greater vision of youth, sensed it dimly.
But at the moment it was not the destiny of nations that concerned Brant and Webb, but the condition of the Cimarron River
only a few miles to the north. From the crest of the rise where they sat their horses, they could see on the trail below and
some miles to the south, their great herd rolling northward, a sea of tossing horns and shaggy backs. Webb as owner and Brant
as Trail Boss were anxious about the crossing they soon would have to attempt. If the Cimarron was on a rampage, and they
had reason to believe it was, the crossing might be anything but easy. Already
the banks of the sinister river were well salted with the bones of cows, and of riders, who had risked the hazard of its turbulent
waters.
The Cimarron was bad at all times. Even during most of the year when it was a sandy stretch with a small, sluggish current,
it could be counted on to provide trouble. Its bed was full of treacherous quicksands which dragged down horses, cattle and
men. Its channel was constantly shifting, and where yesterday there was a passable ford, today there might be a deep hole
that was utterly unsuspected and which could easily mean disaster for the unwary.
From the crest of the rise, Webb and Brant could see the yellow torrent cutting the prairie like a giant rusty sword. They
shook their heads in unison as they gazed upon it.
“Looks bad,” remarked Webb.
“It does,” agreed the Trail Boss, his glance shifting to the east.
“We might get held up,” said Webb. “If we do, it means a big loss. I contracted to deliver this bunch by the eighth of the
month, with a penalty for non-delivery.”
Brant nodded. He didn’t need to be told that. His gaze was still to the east, and his black brows drew together above the
high bridge of the rather prominent nose between level gray eyes.
“Think we can risk it?” Webb persisted.
“Haven’t made up my mind yet,” Brant replied. “Want to get a closer look at that crik.
Anyhow, I’ve a notion we’ll find out whether it can be crossed or not. There’s a big herd headed along the bank from the east.
They’ll hit Doran’s Crossing before we get there. They’re coming fast.
Look at the dust boil up! Whoever is handling that herd is either in a hurry or doesn’t care how much fat he runs off his
beefs.”
“Sure looks that way,” Webb returned absently. His glance shifted to the setting sun. “We had oughta be able to make it before
dark, if we can make it at all,” he said.
“Yes,” agreed Brant. “There’s better pasture on the far side.”
“What’s them shacks over there?” Webb asked.
“That’s Doran,” Brant replied. “That big one sprawled all over the flat is called
Old Jane’s Dead-fall. It’s a hell, all right. An old harridan named Jane Doran first set it up. The pueblo was named for her.
She’s gone, but the gents that later took over are saltier than she ever was. The place lives off the riders coming along
this way, mostly with the drives.”
Webb frowned. “And the boys will figger they’re due a little bust, after ridin’ this infernal river,” he remarked.
Brant nodded sober agreement. “I’ll keep an eye on them,” he promised.
“And Cole Dawson in pertickler,” Webb warned. “Cole is one of the best cowhands that ever came out of Texas, but put him in
reach of a bottle and there’s no tellin’ what he’ll do. Sometimes I wish I’d let him go. He ain’t been right since I made
you range boss of the Runnin’ W. Cole figgered he’d get the job when Raines went into business on his own. He would have, if
he hadn’t such a hankerin’ for red-eye.”
“I’ve a notion he’ll straighten out, sooner or later,” Brant remarked.
Old John grunted, and looked far from convinced. Brant continued to eye the sky. Far to the
west, above a range of low hills, a cloud was climbing, purple and piled, with an ominous flicker of lightning across its breast.
The crests of the hills were swathed in violet mist, from which shot forth long, wavering streamers, akin to the banners of
an advancing army. Brant shook his head dubiously.
“There’s a bad storm under way over there,” he told the Boss. “I sure don’t like the looks of it.”
“Don’t ’pear to be comin’ this way over fast,” Webb commented.
“No,” Brant agreed, “but something else is liable to come this way, and fast.”
“What’s that?”
“Water. A cloudburst up toward the head of the Cimarron sends water down the channel in big waves, and it sure raises hell.
Comes almighty fast and sudden. We don’t want to get caught by one with the cows in the middle of the river. But if we don’t
risk it and cross to night, I got a feeling we won’t get across for days. Come on, I want to see that herd ahead take the
water.”
The pair touched up their horses and rode swiftly down the sag. They proceeded across the prairie at a fast gallop, but before
they reached the river bank, the herd from the east was already taking the water. The broad stream was crowded with shaggy
heads and clashing horns as the cows streaked through the water like shooting stars bursting from a cloud bank. Bawling and
blowing, the first steers made the far bank. And it was a long way off, for the Cimarron, often so shallow a man could wade
it, was now a wild torrent swirling and roaring between its muddy banks.
Brant and Webb thrilled to the drama of the
crossing as they reined in a little distance to the last of the herd, which was pouring forward to take the water. Tensely
they sat their horses, watching the tangled, bumping masses breast the current. Some went under, not to rise again. Calves
were crushed and drowned. But the great body of the herd reached the solid ground of the far shore, shook the water from their
hides and fell to grazing.
Glancing about, Austin Brant saw a man sitting his horse, motionless as a statue, a little to the right.
It was the horse that first held Brant’s attention. Full seventeen hands high, it was a splendid bay with coal-black mane and
tail. As fine a horse, almost, as Smoke, Brant’s great blue moros. Speed, endurance, good nature, all were there, without a
doubt.
But a single glance at the rider was enough to transfer his interest to the animal’s owner. He was a tall man and slender,
with the steely slenderness of a rapier blade. His eyes were intensely black, with a glitter to them like to knife points
in the sun. His face, cameo-like in its regularity of feature, had a healthy outdoor look, but the skin was the type that
tans but little no matter how much exposed to wind and sun. The paleness of complexion was less startling in contrast to his
dark eyes than was his hair, a crisply golden mane curling down almost to his collar. All in all, there was a restless, untamed
look to the motionless horse men sitting lance-straight under the darkening sky. Austin Brant fell it, and felt also the magnetic
personality that dwelt beneath the unbelievably handsome face and perfect form.
“So damn good looking it hurts!” he muttered. “And a hell raiser if there ever was one. Salty, with plenty of wrinkles on
his horns. Wonder who he is?”
The tall stranger filled that lack a moment later. He noted Brant’s gaze upon him, flashed a smile and rode over to greet the
new arrivals.
“Kane’s the handle,” he introduced, extending a slim, capable looking hand. “Norman Kane.”
Brant and Webb supplied their own names and shook hands gravely.
“See your critters wear a Flyin’ V burn,” the latter remarked, by the way of making conversation.
“Yes, that’s my brand,” Kane replied. “My spread’s over to the southeast of here.”
“Good range?”
“Could be better,” Kane answered, his brows drawing together slightly. “Fact is, I’ve about decided to pull up stakes and
move farther west. Grass isn’t what it should be, and there’s very little shelter against bad weather. I prefer a hill range,
where there are canyons and coulees for the critters to hole up against storms and too much sun.”
“That’s right,” agreed Webb. “Nothin’ like it. I got plenty of hills down in the Texas Panhandle. Good grass, too, and enough
water.”
Kane nodded, his eyes thoughtful.
“My brand’s Runnin’ W, startin’ sort of like yours, but twice over,” Webb supplied.
“And I notice your herd is about twice mine, too,” Kane chuckled, flashing a smile. “Figger to take the water?”
“It’s up to Brant,” Webb replied, jerking his thumb toward his foreman. “I’m follerin’ his lead. He’s been here before.”
Brant’s eyes were again on the ominous western sky. The cloud bank had climbed little higher, but was thicker and darker than
before. The hill crests were totally obscured now by the drifting rain mists which the wind whipped into fantastic shapes
illuminated by the fitful lightning glare.
“Haven’t made up my mind yet,” he told Kane. “Sure don’t like the looks of the weather over there.”
“If you don’t make it this evenin’ you’re liable to get stuck here for several days,” Kane observed.
“I’m taking that into account,” Brant replied. “We can’t afford to get stuck, but we can afford less to lose our cows in a
sudden flood.”
“It would hardly come down that fast,” said Kane.
Austin Brant turned his level gray graze upon the other’s face.
“Ever make this drive before?” he questioned. Kane shook his handsome head.
“Nope, I never did,” he admitted. “But I’ve rode other rivers.”
“The Cimarron is in a class by itself,” Brant returned grimly. “But we’ll see. Here come the cows.”
“And here comes Cole Dawson for his powders,” Webb said.
A moment later Dawson pulled rein beside the group.
“Well,” he rumbled, “all set to hit the wet?”
Brant did not answer immediately. He seemed to look the cowboy over speculatively.
Cole Dawson was worth looking at. He was a giant of a man, more than six feet in height, tall almost as Austin Brant, and
pounds heavier. His
shoulders were thick and slightly bowed. His great hairy hands were affixed to powerful corded wrists and when Dawson was standing
on his trunk-like legs, they dangled nearly to his knees. He had a bad-tempered face dominated by hot blue eyes. His lips
were thick, but firmly set, his nose fleshy and bulbous. He looked what he was, a hard man but a capable one.
“Well,” he repeated, “all set to go?”
Brant turned his gaze back to the west, and still hesitated. A sneer writhed Dawson’s thick lips, showing his stubby, tobacco-stained
teeth.
“Scairt of a puddle of water?” he jeered.
“Any fool can get a herd, and himself, drowned,” Brant returned quietly.
Dawson’s face flushed darkly red. He opened his lips to reply, but old John Webb cut him short.
“Be enough of this,” said the Running W owner. “I got enough troubles without you two young roosters spurrin’ each other.
We’re here to get this herd to Dodge City, not to argify. Brant has the say, and what he says goes.”
Dawson shut up. When old John spoke in that tone of voice, he expected, and usually got, obedience. If he didn’t get it, the
jigger he spoke to got something
he
didn’t like.
On Norman Kane’s classically handsome face was a faintly amused smile, but his eyes held a speculative gleam as they rested
on the angry Dawson.
Austin Brant abruptly made up his mind. “All right,” he snapped, “we’ll risk it. Get ’em moving, Dawson. The logs tied fast
to the chuck wagons? Okay, we’ll float them across first. They wouldn’t have a chance if the water came down suddenly.
Have two hands rope to each wagon to help the horses. And four or five of the boys standing on the upstream side of each one,
against an overturn. Others can lead their horses across. Let’s go.”
With work to do, private feuds were instantly forgotten. Dawson wheeled his horse and rode back to meet the herd and relay
the Trail Boss’ orders. Within fifteen minutes the two wagons, each with a big cottonwood log lashed on either side, hit the
water. Several times before they reached the far bank it looked bad, but largely due to Dawson’s skill in handling the chore,
they got across safely. Dawson and his hands, including those who had steadied the wagons and mounted the horses led across
for them, returned to the near bank.
“Now for it,” said Brant. “In they go. Thank the Lord the bank is low here and over there, so we don’t have to make dugways.”
He gave a last glance into the ominous west. He could see less than a mile along the course of the river now, because of the
mists that were thickening over the water.
The yelling cowboys sent the cattle into the river with a rush. The cows didn’t want to go, but they went. At first they sloshed
through the shallows, bellowing complaints. A moment later, however, they were swimming. Brant, sitting his horse at the water’s
edge, watched with a darkening face.
“She’s getting higher by the minute,” he told Webb. “I don’t like it, but maybe we’ll pull through.”
Cole Dawson was working like a demon. His roaring voice sounded loud above the turmoil as
he cursed the cows, the river and the hands. From time to time he darted a sneering glance at Austin Brant. As the last of
the herd bawl-bellered into the water, he sent his horse plunging for the river.
“That feller’s got nerve,” observed Norman Kane, who had remained on the hither side of the river to watch the Running W cows
take the water. “He—hell and blazes!”
Brant and Webb followed his staring eyes and swore in turn. Less than a quarter of a mile upstream, racing through the swirling
mists, was a solid wall of water a full ten feet in height. Its tossing crest was speckled with uprooted trees and bushes.
Roaring, thundering, it hurtled downstream.
