Free The Last Trail Drive by J. Roberts Page B

out.”

TWENTY-FIVE
    The next morning Clint made wholesale changes. He left the drivers where they were. They usually worked in pairs on either side of the herd, kept the steers from spreading out too wide. But he moved flankers to ride drag, drag riders to the point, and pointers back to drag just to see how they’d perform. He left the remuda and the hoodlum wagon alone for the moment.
    Flood and Clint roamed the herd, watching the steers and the men at the same time. They also watched their back trail and hillside they passed along the way.
    At one point Clint came up alongside Flood and asked, “Who do you trust the most?”
    â€œYou.”
    â€œBesides me,” Clint said, and then added quickly, “and besides yourself.”
    Flood thought for a moment.
    â€œBud Coleman,” he said. “He’s ridden with me before.”
    â€œColeman,” Clint said. “I know who he is. Tall man, in his forties?”
    â€œSits his horse kinda crooked, after all these years,” Flood said. “He’s pretty much in pain all the time.”
    â€œWhat from?”
    â€œBad hip,” Flood said. “Got thrown a few years back, landed on it.”
    â€œYou know, I noticed we had somebody who was struggling to keep up. Why don’t we let him drive a wagon?” Clint asked.
    â€œBecause he’s a trail driver and that’s what he wants to do,” Flood said. “He don’t care how much it hurts.”
    â€œWell, maybe I can give him something to do that won’t require so much cutting and turning.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike checking to see if we really are being watched,” Clint said.
    â€œI ain’t sure about that,” Flood said.
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œI don’t think he’d be up to that.”
    â€œWhat are you telling me, Hank?”
    â€œWe’re carryin’ Bud, Clint,” Flood admitted. “I wanted him along on this drive, but he ain’t really doin’ us much good.”
    â€œOkay, then,” Clint said, “who’s the second man you trust the most?”
    Â 
    During the course of the day, Clint watched Bill Coleman and saw what Flood was talking about. The man was so intent on not falling off his horse that he barely did any work at all. He would have been so much better off driving one of the wagons, but his pride would probably have hurt more than his hip did.
    Flood came up with another name, a man called Chip Ryan. He said he’d used Ryan on a couple of drives, but that the man had a lot of other talents.
    â€œWhat kind of talents?”
    â€œYou’ll have to ask him,” Flood said. “I don’t know which ones he’d want to admit to.”
    â€œOkay,” Clint said. “I’ll do it at chow tonight.”
    So as the camp filled with the wonderful smells of Spud’s supper, Clint approached Chip Ryan, who was sitting with some of the other hands. They all stopped talking as Clint approached.
    â€œâ€™ Evenin’, Boss,” one of them said.
    â€œGood evening,” Clint said. “Which one of you is Ryan?”
    â€œThat’s me.” A red-haired man in his thirties stepped forward. “What can I do for you, Boss?”
    â€œYou can come and eat with me,” Clint said. “I have something to talk to you about.”
    Ryan looked confused.
    â€œAm I gettin’ fired?” he asked.
    â€œNo, no, nothing like that,” Clint said. “I just have somethin’ I want you to do for me.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œWe’ll talk about it over supper,” Clint said. “Join me by the chuckwagon in ten minutes.”
    â€œYessir.”
    Clint turned and left, heard the conversation erupt behind him.
    â€œWonder what he wants you to do?” somebody asked.
    â€œAnd why he picked you?” another said.
    Let them wonder, he thought.
    Â 
    He joined Flood by the