“How about the other way—?” But Lorna didn’t get to finish the sentence, as he closed it off with a kiss. When she did have a chance to speak again, she was too enraptured with the other pleasure to remember what she had intended to say.
III
From right where you’re standin’
As far’s you can see,
That’s Calder range you’re lookin’ at,
And all for you and me.
18
When the trail herd left Ogallala, they followed the Platte River Valley into the Wyoming Territory and struck north out of Cheyenne. As long as possible, Benteen kept to routes established by previous drives that brought Texas cattle to Wyoming ranges.
Five weeks out of Nebraska they were in new country, the virgin plains that had once belonged to the buffalo. It meant Benteen had to do a lot more riding in advance of the herd, scouting terrain as much as a day or more ahead of the drive for graze, water, and safe places to ford.
Behind
him, the Longhorn cattle marched onward along the great pathless solitudes. Sometimes they were strung out for nearly two miles. As Lorna found, it was tedious, harassing work to keep the weary cattle moving without hurrying them. At night she fell into bed bone-tired and snuggled against Benteen, sleeping the minute she closed her eyes.
Woolie’s leg was healing, making him all the more anxious to get back in the saddle. Lorna didn’t think she’d be sorry to retire her cowboy hat and let him return to the weary, monotonous toil. But she was proud of the part she played, and knew she could do it again if her help was needed.
No visible line marked the boundary between Wyoming and Montana. One evening Benteen rode into camp and announced they were in Montana; the next day they’d cross the Powder River. In two weeks they’d be pitching their final camp. Tears of relief sprang into Lorna’s eyes. The trail had seemed endless. They’d been on it four months, and in some ways it seemed like four years.
“I wish you hadn’t told us how close we are,” she said to him later when they were in bed.
“Why?” He turned his head to look at her, lifting a strand of her hair to idly finger it.
“Because now I’ll be impatient to get there. I’m tired of living like this,” Lorna admitted. “It wasn’t so bad when I didn’t know how much longer it would be. Now I just want it to be over.”
“Complaining again.” Benteen clicked his tongue in mock reproval.
“Yes, I am.” She didn’t deny it.
“Just wait till we get there. You’ll find it was worth all we’ve been through,” he promised, and pressed his mouth to her temple.
The herd crossed the Powder, Pumpkin, and Tongue rivers, and finally, the Yellowstone in the middle part of August. Less than a week after the crossing, Benteen cantered his horse back to swing alongside Lorna, riding left flank. There was a vital, eager tension about him. It gleamed in his dark eyes when he reined in beside her.
“Wanta ride ahead with me?” he asked. “I’ll have Zeke cover swing and flank.”
By now the cattle were so well-broken to trail, they’d lost the urge to stray off on their own. They traveled as a unit, knowing when it was time to stop for the nooning and when to start in the afternoon. Only the drag riders had trouble yet with the laggards in the herd.
“Yes.” Lorna sensed something in the air. She knew they were close to the range Benteen had claimed, but she didn’t know how close.
Easing away from the herd, they put their horses into a steady lope to make a wide pass of the herd. The land rolled out in limitless plains of thick, matted grass. Its flatness was broken with buttes and gouged with coulees, and dominated by a lonely stretch of sky.
A rider was briefly outlined on the crest of a ridge. It was the first human Lorna had seen in weeks, outside of the trail crew. She pointed out the approaching horse and rider to Benteen, but he’d already seen him. Satisfaction settled over the line of his mouth as he slowed his mount to a trot.
“It’s Barnie,” he told her.
When the rider pulled up to greet them, Lorna expected a boisterous welcome. But Barnie Moore just nodded. “I figured that was your trail dust. Got any cigarette papers? I’m clean out.”
Benteen handed him a pack of papers from his vest pocket. “Keep it.”
“Never did take to chewin’.” He shook out some tobacco from his pouch and deftly twirled the paper around it, licking it shut. Lighting the cigarette, he sucked in the smoke and held it for a silent, savoring moment.
“How’s it been? Quiet?” Benteen waited until he’d exhaled to ask.