Page 33 of Follow the Lonesome Trail
She lifted her gaze away from the man and up to the golden sunlight painting the towering rim of the canyon above.
“Well,” he sighed, “I should make sure the horses are put up. Me and Hughes, we’ll start early tomorrow. Maybe even be gone a day or two, make sure we really check the range along the river.”
“Be careful.”
“Of course, ma’am.” He replaced his hat and pulled at the worn brim.
The wind picked up over the hills, sweeping across the corrals, licking up curls of dust into the still sunlight.
This place was so beautiful—and so desolate.
“Henry! Addie! Come in and help with supper, it’s getting dark!”
From behind the house came her two children—Addie dark-haired like her father, Henry light like her. Both covered in the dust they were playing in.
“Did they find the cattle?” Henry shaded his eyes.
“A few.”
His young face wore too much of the worn world. He looked out into the fading sun, solemn. “Don’t worry, Mama. They’ll find more.”
She didn’t have the heart to tell him.
He leaned over his saddle horn and surveyed the land before him. A loose band of cattle grazed below them, in and around the mesquite. Patches of dark, flattened weeds showed they’d only gotten up recently—they’d bedded here.
“This ain't our land anymore,” he observed quietly, leaning over to spit into the dirt.
“What of it?” His partner looked at him, a scowl coming over his face.
“Just saying.”
“Well, keep it to yourself, Comanch.” The partner turned his horse away and spurred it down the hill.
He followed him down the hill. The cows were a mix of steers and nursing cows—about a third of them had stretched out bags with dried foam on them and large calves wandering between them. Every one he saw had a dollar with an L branded on their flanks. None of them were Bar S that he could see.
A crooked-horned cow lowered her head in challenge as he passed her; an empty threat. His pony didn’t suffer fools.
He headed on past, turned as he saw his partner was starting to circle the cows.
“These ain’t ours, either, Hank.”
“It don’t matter, some always get caught up in the roundups. It’s no big deal.” His partner waved him off.
“But we can leave these be. They’re all Lucky Dollar.”
Hank made like he hadn’t heard him.
“I’m going up beyond,” he continued, “Just to take a look. Then we should head back before we get shot at.”
“We ain’t getting shot at, didn’t you hear? Frank McKinley’s dead, his widow’s all by her lonesome.”
“Who’s Frank McKinley?”
“I forgot you weren’t here. Ran the Lucky Dollar. The Lucky Dollar, it ain’t lucky worth dirt now.”
“So the widow’s alone?” He squinted off towards the hills—he didn’t much feel like looking Hank in the eye just now.
"Yeah, I mean, she got maybe a man or two left, but they ain’t staying long neither.”
