Through Dust and Distance Chapter 10

Night Raid

This is the fifteenth 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 days that followed the fire were uneventful. On the fifthth day after the fire, they camped on a flat stretch where cottonwoods thinned. Toward evening, a knot of riders came down the trail from the north, four men.

Cutter hailed them and stopped at the wagon.

The strangers passed along the trail gossip without being asked.

“Night riders out there,” one said, jerking his chin toward the darkening horizon. “Hit a herd up north a week ago. Came in fast, loud. Peeled off a mess of cattle before anyone could roll outta their blankets.”

Another man spat. “Two drovers dead. Weren’t even time for boots.”

Will helped Dutch spoon out beans for the visitors. Men talked in low voices. Cole muttered that any coward who had to shoot from the dark wasn’t worth the powder.

Holt sat apart near the horses, polishing his coffee cup with a rag. If the talk bothered him, he didn’t show it.

Cutter doubled the watch. “No fires bigger than a hat,” he said. “Keep your ears open.”

The riders left before moonrise.

Will had taken third watch the night before. He was plum tuckered. He crawled into his bedroll, rehashing what Ortega had said, “Listen for rhythm. Trouble has its own beat.”

He slept light despite how tired he was, with the low grunts from the herd settling around him like a hum.

Something woke Will. He sat up. Hooves, fast and heavy, coming from the far side of the herd, shouting and then a gunshot broke the night open. Horses screamed. Cattle lurched up in panic.

“Up! Up!” someone yelled.

Will kicked free of his blankets and ran barefoot to the pinto. He swung up without saddle or boots. The muscles of his horse were tight as fence wire.

There were maybe six riders, yelling and firing, trying to spook the cattle into running wild.

Benji had been riding on patrol and was suddenly at Will’s side, eyes wide and white. “Left! They’re breakin’ left!”

Will pushed the pinto that way, trying to drive the edge of the herd back in line. A steer slammed into his stirrup and jarred his knee.

Gunshots boomed.

So much dust Will could barely see.

Holt rode out of the dark on his gray, no hat. A steer slammed into his stirrup and nearly tore him out of the saddle. He grabbed mane, righted himself, and kept fighting to turn the animal before it sent another cowhand flying.

He threw a punch at a rustler rider who got too close, but the man ducked and swung a pistol in Holt’s direction. The gray skidded sideways, and Holt barely kept his seat.

He looked once toward the wagon, hesitated, then turned back into the fight.

Shots rang through the dark and the whole herd lurched.

Benji didn’t peel away. He hauled his rifle up from the scabbard and fired twice into the shadows.