The Last Trail Drive by J. Roberts Page A

know him?”
    â€œMorgan’s normal-lookin’,” Flood said, “but Jones, now there’s another story.
    â€œSo if he comes back and describes Jones . . .”
    â€œOh yeah,” Flood said, “I’ll know him.”
    â€œOkay, then.”
    Clint sipped his coffee and stared out into the distance.
    â€œWhat’s on your mind?”
    â€œIf we are being followed, and it’s Morgan’s men, and the point is to see that you don’t finish this drive, why not just stampede the herd?”
    â€œI dunno,” Flood said. “Maybe they’re worried some of my men would get killed.”
    â€œYou really think that’s a worry for Morgan?” Clint asked.
    â€œNo,” Flood said, after a moment “I don’t think that, at all.”

TWENTY-SEVEN
    After dark Clint walked with Chip Ryan to where the horses were picketed, watched while the man saddled his horse.
    â€œYou sure you want to do this, Ryan?” Clint asked.
    â€œYou ain’t tryin’ ta talk me out of it, are ya, Boss?” Ryan asked.
    â€œNo,” Clint said. “I just want you to know what you’re getting into.”
    â€œAll I’m doin’ is takin’ a ride,” Ryan said, “and a look see. What harm can come from that?”
    â€œNone at all,” Clint said.
    Ryan smiled and mounted up.
    â€œJust don’t step in any chuckholes while you’re at it,” Clint said.
    â€œOl’ Stony here is as surefooted as they come,” Ryan said. “You don’t have to worry about him steppin’ wrong.”
    â€œThat’s good,” Clint said. “I hope to see you this time tomorrow, Ryan.”
    â€œTwenty-four hours oughtta be enough, Boss,” Ryan said. “Just have some of Cookie’s coffee ready for me.”
    The men had already taken to calling Spud Johnson “Cookie.”
    â€œIt’ll be ready,” Clint said.
    Ryan nodded and rode out into the dark.
    Â 
    When Clint returned to the fire, Spud Johnson handed him a cup of coffee.
    â€œThanks, Spud.”
    â€œSomethin’ wrong, Boss?” Spud asked.
    â€œWhat makes you ask that?”
    Spud shrugged.
    â€œI just got a feelin’.”
    â€œWell, there’s nothing for you to worry about.”
    â€œThat’s good,” Spud said. “I don’t want nothin’ to go wrong with this job.”
    â€œJust worry about keeping the men fed, Spud,” Clint said.
    â€œYessir.” He looked over Clint’s shoulder. “Coffee, Boss?”
    â€œYeah, thanks, Spud,” Flood said.
    The cook poured a cup and handed it to Flood, who nodded his thanks, again.
    â€œRyan get off?” Flood asked.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhat are you so sour about?”
    Clint looked at Flood.
    â€œI’m thinking this should have been something I did myself.”
    â€œI need you here.”
    â€œI know,” Clint said, “but if something happens to Ryan . . .”
    â€œYou give him a choice, or an order?”
    â€œI gave him a choice.”
    â€œThen he knows what he’s doin’,” Flood said. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
    They drank their coffee in silence for a while, and then Clint said, “There is something else I’m worried about, though.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    Clint looked at Flood.
    â€œI’m worried that there’s still something you’re not telling me.”
    Flood stared back at Clint, then looked down at his coffee cup.
    â€œSpud?” he yelled.
    â€œBoss?”
    â€œWe need some more coffee.”
    â€œComin’ up.”
    â€œAnd bring out that jug I give ya.”
    â€œComin’, Boss.”
    Spud came over with a big cast-iron coffee pot, and a bottle of whiskey that was still three-quarters full.
    â€œMy private stock,” Flood told Clint.
    Spud poured the coffee, and then topped it off with a finger of whiskey