Ghost Riders

     Leroy Turnbuckle pulled his horse up short. The midday sun bore down upon him, and he was two days out from his last bed, with another day's ride before he had any hope of another. He had two dollars in his vest pocket and few prospects, but he had a sound horse. He took a drink from his canteen and was interrupted by a rustling nearby. A small copse of shrubs stood in a nearby arroyo; his first thought was bandits, but the movement was too regular. He slowly pulled his Winchester from its scabbard and clucked his horse forward. Riding slowly into the arroyo, he found a handful of cattle that had wandered from the main herd. One young cow was scratching her back on a low-hanging Palo Verde branch, causing the rustling that had alarmed him.

     Turnbuckle nicked softly and slowly walked his horse toward the cattle. Several looked up at his approach, but then turned their attention elsewhere. There were eight or ten head here who had sought the shelter of the damp arroyo mud and shade of overhanging branches to escape the midday heat.

     He sat for a minute or two, considering his options. No cow hands seemed to be around; these cattle appeared lost, didn't they? Their owners clearly had not missed so few head, he reasoned, but these few cows might house and feed him for several days, more if he were frugal. Looking over his shoulder a couple more times, he slowly began to gather the strays together and moved them out of the arroyo.

     Turnbuckle kept a watch on his back trail as he led the strays out; he told himself that no one would miss fewer than a dozen cows, but deep in his mind he also knew that men could hang for the theft of only one – rustling was rustling, no matter how many head it was. He turned the cattle south, thinking to skirt the ranches of likely owners and avoid conflict. He quickly realized how difficult it was to herd cattle by oneself, and at day's end he was happy to bed down the dozen animals and rest for a time.

     In the morning he was up before dawn to get a little jerky and coffee in him before he had to move the cows again. He began to think about what it was he was doing; he was moving head south to avoid notice and capture, but toward an uncertain destination.

     Mid morning he was crossing a large open meadow when he saw another herd coming directly toward him. He briefly considered ducking to the tree line to the west, but one man with a dozen head doesn't dash quickly, and he feared that trying so obviously to avoid them would look suspicious.

     There were seven, maybe ten riders leading a small herd of twenty or thirty cattle; Turnbuckle tried to turn his cows west just a touch to keep the cattle from intermingling, but the other group was riding faster and almost seemed to turn west to match him. The two herds mixed as the riders approached. The Boss and lead man reigned up a couple of lengths from Turnbuckle. The Boss was a big man with a dark mop of curly hair and a scraggly beard that spilled down over his open duster. He touched the wide brim of his hat with his fingers.

            "Morning, stranger!" The lead rider with him nodded but offered no greeting.

            "Good morning."

            "I didn't expect to see any other herds so late in the season . . . especially moving south." The big man paused as if waiting for Leroy to offer an explanation, but he was silent. "I mean, seeing as how the rail line is north of us and all. Where are you taking your beeves?"

           "South; I've got a small spread down near Sulphur Springs. I'm hoping to build a spread and maybe next year take them north to the rail head."

            The big man nodded slowly.

           "What about you, taking them to market so late in the season?"