Blood on the Moon by Luke Short Page A

impression. But his ability to size up cattle—count, weight, condition, age, asking and selling price—had been acquired in a half a hundred trail camps and towns where a man was never far from violence. He was a formidable barroom brawler who went about it in businesslike unconcern, and to him this fight had the earmarks of a barroom brawl.
    He asked Ferg Daniels now, “Added anything to your count?”
    “Cruver came in with jag he found in a box canyon yesterday. Makes eight hundred and fifteen.”
    Cap Willis nodded. He had six men here, counting himself. Once they got the stuff shoved off the plateau into the canyons they could drive them fast, and the tallow be damned. He rose, and Ferg rose with him. Out in the rope corral beyond the chuck wagon, where the remuda was corraled, the horse wrangler was swearing mildly. A puncher had built a second fire on the other side of the chuck wagon to help the light from the lone lantern swinging from the wagon top.
    Cap started toward it, and Ferg fell in beside him and was saying, “You must be pretty sure of Riling if you make this—”
    He paused, and so did Cap. A lone gunshot hadsounded off to the southwest. And as they were looking at each other, wondering, a wave of gunfire broke out. It rolled out like an artillery salvo.
    Cap wheeled and ran for his horse, yelling, “Head ’em toward the river.”
    Already he had sized up that this was a raid, that there would be a stampede and that at all costs they must head them toward the river.
    When he swung onto his horse he heard the sound. It was one he hated, one that still held fear for him. It was the muted thunder of cattle roused from sleep to terror and running. And these cattle were close. Their frightened bawling rose above the thunder of their running. Now, facing away from the fire, he could see the flashes of the guns spaced like fireflies beyond the herd. They were to the east and south, and they were driving the cattle this way.
    And then, riding out, Cap met the herd leaders. He pulled his gun, angling toward the west, and began shooting at the ground, trying to turn them. He tried to hold his horse at them, but the horse was panicked. He turned now with the leaders, and they were headed straight for the camp. Cursing wildly, Cap put his horse against the leader and shot right beside the steer. But even the weight of the horse and the surprise of the shot didn’t alter the steer’s course. He was headed straight for the camp.
    Cap had two shots left. He rose in the saddle and looked across the backs of the herd and then saw what he was waiting for. A strange rider at the opposite side of the herd and a little behind him let go with a volley intended to counteract Cap’s shooting. Cap raised his gun and sent two snap shots at the man, and he heard a wild howl above the stampedingof the herd. And now his attention was turned to camp.
    The crew, afoot and with no time to get their horses, saw the oncoming rush of cattle and broke for the timber behind the camp. The horse wrangler yanked down the last of the remuda ropes and was running. Only Ferg Daniels had stuck, and he was fighting a spooked horse with only a hackamore. Cap yelled to him to run, and then the whole camp lay spread out before him, abandoned by the men.
    Cap was almost in the vanguard when the herd hit the camp. The leaders split to dodge the fire, throwing themselves against the others. The drive of their change of direction was communicated over to Cap’s horse. The leaders charged against his pony, and too late Cap saw the chuck wagon. His horse staggered, lost footing and crashed into the chuck wagon. Then the force of a hundred fear-driven beeves slammed into his horse. The near wheels of the wagon lifted and tilted, and Cap kicked free of his screaming horse and lunged. The wagon went over on its side, and Cap clawed out of the saddle, grabbing for the sideboard. He pulled himself over it and fell to the ground on the other side, and