Through Dust and Distance Chapter 11

Burial

This is the sixteenth installment in a serialized story about Will Sturgis, a young hand looking for wages and maybe a bit of purpose. He joins a northbound cattle drive and learns fast that the trail is equal parts sweat, dust, danger and unexpected grace. If you like Westerns with heart and grit, saddle up. Will’s got a long way to ride.

The first one is free, but the rest will be under the paid subscription. I have a sale going on now where you can get a permanent 75% discount for annual subscriptions now. Sign up here: Annual Subscription Sale 75% off!

I hope you join Will on his ride north.

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Trailing Texas Longhorns - Frederic Remington (1904)

The morning had the feel of bad luck that was not done with them yet.

Benji’s body laid wrapped in a blanket under the wagon, tied neat and tight. Tucker sat beside it a long while before sunrise, hat low, head bowed as if he might speak but never found the words. When Cutter and the others left to chase the rustlers, the camp shrank by half. The silence that followed felt bigger than the prairie.

Amos and Dutch loaded Benji into the back of the wagon. They were not leaving him behind.

Will saddled the pinto in a haze.

Tucker took his time mounting.

Red rose from where he had been checking a lame steer and swung into the saddle at right swing, giving Will a look that said, you are not alone.

Will nudged the pinto forward and took his place on the left.

The drive moved on, the morning heavy as wet canvas. And for the first time, the weight of the herd settled square on his shoulders. The cattle stepped out uneasy, edges loose, shoulders rolling too much, the kind of nervous sway that warned of a blowout. They felt the missing men same as the crew did.

Tucker called to the front of the herd, steadying them, though sometimes it sounded like he was steadying himself more than the cattle.

Will moved to check the left bulge, pinto stepping sure beneath him, shoulder angling just right. Doing the thinking for both of them.

The steers complained and slid back into line.

Dust rose behind them where Amos and Tom Reed worked drag. Amos coughed into his sleeve.

Will kept glancing back, wanting to be everywhere at once. Hold the herd, watch Tucker, stop thinking about what happened.

Midmorning brought heat and a rest break. Tucker dismounted and leaned against his saddle horn, head down.

“You good?” Will asked.

Tucker nodded once but said nothing.

When they started again, the herd found a slower rhythm.

Shadows stretched long when a rumble and cloud of dust appeared ahead of them and to the right.

Will squinted through the fading light.

The crew came in as shapes first, dust silhouettes. Four riders, spread wide, hazing a tight bunch of cattle between them. Maybe a couple dozen head.

Cutter looked carved down by the ride, his face lined, shirt streaked with sweat and dust. Ortega’s hat was bent wrong. Cole’s horse limped a little. Holt looked sober. They pushed the reclaimed cattle into the main herd, easing them in slow so as not to spook the others.

When the cattle settled, Cutter swung down and went straight to the wagon. Tucker followed at a distance, hat in his hands.

Will stayed mounted, watching.

Cutter checked Benji’s wrapped body. Put a hand on the blanket and held it there a moment. Ortega stood beside him, head lowered.

Then Cutter turned toward the men. “We’ll bury him come morning. Get yourselves fed.”

The sky above them was the color of cooled ashes. Smoke, cattle, dust, and sweat. By evening it all came together into one smell that belonged to the trail.

They made camp quietly. No one talked much. No one laughed. Dutch cooked in silence. Tucker sat by Benji’s wrapped body until Cutter gently told him to sleep.

Will didn’t sleep for a long time. He kept thinking this is what grown men carry out here.

The stars came out sharp and cold overhead, but Will kept his eyes on the dark line where Cutter would choose ground in the morning.

Tomorrow, they would bury Benji. Just thinking his name hurt.

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