By the time the herd caught up with the chuckwagon, the sun had set. As the cattle bedded down, the savory aromas of beans, bacon, and fresh biscuits drifted on the air. The cowboys, who’d missed the noon meal, were ravenous. But the usual camaraderie around the fire was absent tonight. There were no tears and no mention of losses suffered, but gloom and grief hung over them all.
Joe had to force himself to swallow his beans and biscuits. By the time he’d finished the meal and returned his plate, his stomach was already churning. He fled to a thicket of bushes, a stone’s throw from camp, where he doubled over and lost everything he’d eaten.
Moving to another spot, he hunkered into a ball of misery. His shoulders shook with silent sobs. Tears he could no longer hold back squeezed from his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. This morning he’d congratulated himself on becoming a man. But he’d never felt less like a man than he did right now.
“Hey, amigo.” The voice, coming from behind him, was Spanish Bill’s. “What are you doing out here? Are you sick?”
Joe was too choked up to answer. He shook his head, but Bill wasn’t convinced. Dropping to a crouch, he laid a hand on Joe’s shoulder.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I know those two boys were your friends.”
Joe shook his head, the words breaking loose and spilling out of him. “It’s not just that. What happened today—it was all my fault. My hat—”
“I know about your hat. I saw it in the water. I couldn’t reach it in time. But you don’t hear me saying it was my fault, do you?”
“That’s not the same.” Joe wiped his eyes on his sleeve, ashamed of his tears. “I was the one who dropped it. I killed them—Jonesy and Andy and all those cows. I killed them, as sure as if I’d took a gun and shot them.”
“No, muchacho.” Bill’s big hand squeezed Joe’s shoulder. “You didn’t mean for it to happen. You were only trying to get out of the way. And the hat . . . It could’ve floated anywhere—down the river or to the bank. But it went the wrong way. It was a terrible thing to happen. But it was an accident. I know that. All the boys know that. Even the boss knows it.”
“Even the boss?” Joe lifted his head and stared at the Mexican cowboy.
“Sí, even the boss. So, will you now come back to the camp with me?”
Joe hesitated, thinking how his tear-streaked face would make him appear to the men. “You go on,” he said. “I’ll come back in a bit.”
Spanish Bill nodded and rose to his feet. “One more thing. When you’re a cowboy, you learn that bad things happen on the trail. If they do, you don’t judge and you don’t look back. You just move on. That, my young friend, is what these men have done for you today. Don’t forget.”
As he walked away, Joe settled back to wait for the darkness to deepen. A waning moon rose above the distant hills. The melancholy cry of a coyote echoed across the prairie.
Joe rubbed his tearstained face with his sleeve. Spanish Bill had delivered a message of acceptance and forgiveness. But Joe would never forgive himself for the careless mistake that had set off a tragedy.
Going forward, he vowed, he would do everything in his power to make up for what he’d done. He would be the first man on the job, first to help, first in the rush to head off a stampede. That was how you became a cowboy. That was how you became a man.
CHAPTER TWO
Three weeks later
JOE WALKED ALONG THE RIVERBANK, PICKING UP FIREWOOD AND PILING it in his arms. Spring floods had ebbed on the Arkansas River. The receding water had left the banks littered with sticks and branches. It was Joe’s job to gather them up and stow them in the calfskin sling, known as the cooney, that hung like a hammock below the frame of the chuckwagon. Extra wood was piled next to the campfire. Even with the herd at rest for a few days, there was always a need for fuel.
Joe was grateful for the easy work. The past three weeks on the trail had pushed men and animals to the edge of endurance. After the debacle at the Red River, the drive had left Texas and crossed into Indian Territory. At first, Joe