Free The Long Trail Home by Stephen A. Bly

ran. Their heads were down, tongues hangin’ out, puffin’ the wind in and out like steam engines. And when they jumped up to run, they started spankin’ themselves with their tails. Up and down, up and down . . . just as hard as you’d quirt a horse in a race. But the big herds are gone.”
    â€œRemember that time we got into a scrape with Ned Christie? I lit shuck for the north country and came across a pile of buffalo bones stacked thirty foot high by the U. P. tracks,” Fortune said. “I guess they’re payin’ twenty dollars or better a ton for bones.”
    â€œThe day will come, Sam Fortune, when kids got to go to the zoo to see a buffalo, or a mountain lion, or a wolf, . . . or a coyote.”
    â€œOh no—coyotes will outlive us all.”
    Kiowa stared out across the plains into the dying daylight. “When do you reckon Rocklin will be driving that herd in here?”
    â€œIn the next five days. Depends on what condition it’s in. He’ll need them watered and grassed before he runs them on this dry stuff.”
    â€œYou figure we’ll have the horses all broke by then?” Kiowa scooped a hunk of meat and a coffee cup full of red beans onto a blue-enameled tin plate and handed it to Fortune.
    Shirt still off, Sam scooped up his beans with a knife. “Depends on how the bay bucks out in the morning. If he’s snuffy again, I’ll have to start all over.”
    Kiowa stabbed his entire piece of fried pork with his hunting knife. He held it like a drumstick and gnawed off a bite. “When we pick our horses, you goin’ to take the buckskin?”
    â€œSo far—he’s the smartest one I’ve seen. You still like the big black you call One Sock?”
    â€œHe’s a little rank, but he can outrun a posse.”
    â€œNo fear of a posse out here.” Sam set down the plate and slipped on his dirty, torn shirt.
    â€œYou should have bought yourself another shirt in Antelope Flats.”
    â€œThis one isn’t more than a couple of months old. Besides, I was broke, remember?”
    â€œYou live rough, Fortune.”
    Sam sipped his coffee then plucked up his plate. “And I’m goin’ to sleep rough. That floor’s goin’ to be harder than ever on these old bones tonight. What I’d give for a feather mattress.” He scooped more slightly gritty beans into his mouth with the knife.
    Kiowa waved his pork slice, still speared to the end of his knife. “What I’d give for a feather mattress and a—”
    â€œForget it, Kiowa.” Sam held his side and tried to keep from laughing. “There isn’t a woman around for a hundred miles.”
    â€œI wonder if Rocklin’s drovers know that. This might be the most isolated ranch on the plains. I can’t imagine anyone wantin’ to live out here. This is the kind of place where they build a prison.”
    Sam surveyed the first stars that had begun to flood the night sky. “I might just sleep outside tonight. That tent gets too hot, anyways.”
    â€œYou complainin’ about my snorin’?”
    â€œWould it do any good if I did?”
    â€œNope, but I’m sleepin’ in the tent. It’s difficult to dream of beautiful women when scorpions and snakes are crawlin’ over you all night.”
    â€œYou gettin’ soft, Kiowa?”
    â€œYeah, and you’re gettin’ old, Sammy. . . . Probably nothin’ we can do about it, neither.”
    With an old-style Texas, iron-horn saddle for a pillow, Fortune propped his back toward the dying embers of the campfire and stared across the dark shadows of the cottonwoods at the distant, dry lightening storm. Every two or three minutes he twisted, bent, and stretched to keep his side from cramping.
    The .50-caliber carbine with twenty-two-inch barrel lay beside him. Whenever he flounced for a more comfortable position, his hand slid down to the grip and