The Drive North

Jess McIntosh

The Outsiders A/U Old West

S.E. Hinton owns the characters. I'm not making any money from this.

This universe is closed right now, thanks.

Chapter 1

"Hey Curtis! You ready to ride?"

Darrel Curtis looked up from checking his horse's hoof and nodded at the white haired old man sitting easily on a dancing Spanish gelding. Phillip Sheppard was the trail boss. A good man for the job, a former Texas Ranger who knew what orders to give and how to give them. Darrel loved the idea of having a boss.

"Yessir" Darrel answered, dropping the hoof. "Just about packed up. We'll meet you and the herd at Clearwater."

Sheppard touched the brim of his hat, and wheeled the dark bay horse around, leaving a dust cloud in his wake. It wasn't much past dawn, but the heat had all ready set in.

"Going to get me a horse like that" Darrel thought. "And pretty damn soon, too"

"Soda!" he yelled, taking his mind off that fancy horse and getting back to business. "Get your lazy butt over here!"

Darrel's younger brother Patrick, called "Sodacrackers" for his fondness for that species of hardtack, came running around the corner.

"Yeah?" the seventeen year old asked, pushing back his hat.

"You got the wagon ready? Everything packed?"

"Yeah. Ain't a whole to pack. You know that."

No matter what kind of rush was going on, Soda's Texas drawl slowed everything to a crawl, Darrel thought. But it was the only slow thing about him. Soda had more than his usual lop-sided grin on his face—Soda was a happy little cuss most of the time, and anxious to get back to being happy the rare times he wasn't—but the excitement of getting ready for the trail drive had him grinning from ear to ear, sleeping or waking.

Darrel couldn't help grinning back at him. He loved this brother dearly, but so did everyone who knew him. Soda Curtis was beautiful, in the healthy, radiant way of wild creatures, like an antelope, or a hawk; you felt better just by looking at him—and the fact that he was totally unaware of the effect he had on people only added to his charm.

His other brother, though...the youngest one...

"Where's Pony?" Darrel asked abruptly.

Soda shifted uneasily, then said "Sayin' good bye to the pond."

"Who's at the pond?"

"Didn't say he was sayin' good-be at the pond. Sayin' good-bye to the pond."

"Oh" Darrel said, like he understood what the hell Soda was talking about. Ponyboy Curtis was an enigma to his oldest brother.

He was named Michael at birth, and Darrel had memories of the quiet, placid infant who seemed to ponder the world with big gray-green eyes, sucking two fingers and mulling things over in a comically solemn way for a baby.

That baby had crowed with delight, though, at his first contact with a horse, almost wiggling out of his father's arms, and his Pa, pleased with something he could understand about this thoughtful elf, his youngest, said "I reckon we got ourselves another pony boy."—

referring to Soda's all ready apparent devotion to horses—and unknowingly bestowed the nickname the boy would have the rest of his life.

In fact, it was Pony's and Soda's uncanny way with horses that netted them the much sought-after job of wranglers on this drive. Darrel couldn't help a smirk of pride that he himself was riding point. Phillip Sheppard had made all the job decisions, and made them on merit after watching the round-ups and branding.

His own grandson, Curly, was riding drag. Darrel snorted with laughter, remembering the young hot-head's reaction to that job decision.

Darrel turned and went through the small adobe house on his way to the back, where the wagon and the mules waited. He glanced around. The place hadn't held much before, and now it was stripped of anything useful.

The few cooking pots, tin plates and cups were packed, the hunting rifles and shotguns stowed; the worn blankets cleaned and folded; all in the wagon.

Darrel sighed. This was the only home he knew, and he was so glad to be leaving. He felt guilty. His last memories of his mother were here—the happy ones sometimes crowded out by the ones of her lingering death...the last memories of his father, too, as Pa had placed the responsibility for his younger brothers on Darrel's fifteen year old shoulders, before riding off to war.

A lot of the men around here had ridden off at that time. Most, like Shayne Curtis, did not come back. One exception to this, Phillip Sheppard, had declared he had never owned any slaves and wasn't going to get his head blown off so some other man could. Besides, he'd seen enough battle with the Mexicans and Commanche to know what it was like.

But Shayne Curtis had reacted to the battle call like a hound to a whistle...

Darrel shook off the memories, as he went out back.

He checked the harness of the mules, the rigging of the wagon,

then looked inside. With all their own gear stowed neatly to the side,

there was plenty of room This was going to be the second wagon on the trail, carrying bedrolls and supplies that didn't belong in the grub wagon. The Curtis's were being paid extra for the use of their wagon and mules.

Darrel picked up a clean feed sack he didn't remember being here before...it was too heavy, and as he peered inside he sighed. Might have known...

He pulled back out of the wagon just in time to see his youngest brother walking up, wiping his eyes, his paint pony ambling faithfully behind him.

"Pony" Darrel began, then noted the red eyes and thought to himself "oh lordy please don't let that be from saying good-bye to the pond."

Now that he thought about, Pony did spend alot of time at the place; not so much now, when he was old enough to help, but when he was a kid he was often found there—looking at bugs, as far as Darrel could tell, watching wild life, staring at clouds, dreaming God knew what.

Once, a five year old Pony had picked out one of the chickens and followed it around all day—to see what it was like to be a chicken, he explained to his incredulous family, as if that was any kind of explanation.

He's damn lucky he didn't end up named ChickenBoy, Darrel thought grimly, looking at his scrawny brother.

Pony was small for his age, skinny as a rail, and as his clothes were usually patched together hand-me-downs from Soda, who got them from Darrel, they hung loosely on him, making him look even frailer.

He was as tough as a little whip of rawhide, Darrel knew, and could knock himself black and blue training a horse, herding cattle, without a whimper. But on the other hand, it was entirely possible he was bawling around from saying good-bye to the pond.

He's fourteen, Darrel thought, wearily, surely to God he's going to out-grow some of this nonsense.

"Pony"

"Yeah?"

"What's this?"

Darrel held up the heavy feed sack.

"You know there's no room for extras on this drive."

"That ain't extra! We got to have it!"

"We got to have it or you got to have it?"

Pony snatched the sack out of his brother's hand and clutched it to him. Inside was the family Bible—Darrel would have let him get away with that—but it was the complete works of Shakespeare, an illustrated volume of fairy tales, and a book of travels that caused trouble.

All the Curtis brothers knew each by heart, and Pony could recite pages.

"Aw, let him take it, Darry" Soda joined them. "Maybe we'll get bored some times an' people will want to hear something"

Soda had heard from Steve Randle that the trail got boring; Soda didn't believe that, but he didn't want to see those precious books pried out of Pony's arms.

"Okay" Darrel gave in, glad to be moving. "But if room's needed that's the first thing that goes."

Pony replaced the bag gently. Soda led up Darrel's big flea-bit gray and tied him to the back of the wagon. Darrel would drive the mules until they reached the small settlement of Clearwater, where a wagon driver would take over. Darrel would join with the other drovers; Pony and Soda reporting to the head wrangler.

"Well, boys, this is it." Darrel looked around. I'm glad to go, he thought, defiantly blinking back tears.

The small vegetable garden cooked in the sun, nobody had bothered to water it for days. No more weeding, no more hauling water, no more nagging the others to help. The last of the chickens had been plucked and eaten; no more trying to keep a coyote-proof chicken house, no more trying to round up the last straggler at night, or nag someone to do it. Nobody had told Darrel what hard work nagging was. No wonder Pa had ridden off to the war like he was going to a party.

But now the boys would have their own boss and someone else to ride their asses.

"You think we'll ever come back?" Pony said wistfully.

Darrel glanced at Soda and refrained from barking "No!"

"Maybe sometime" Soda said. He planned to, if only to sign on for another drive. He would miss home, but the open spaces looked better to him, always moving toward the next adventure.

He ruffled Pony's hair back, knocking his hat to hang by its strings.

"Let's ride, pard."

Soda swung onto his chestnut mustang, and cantered out ahead.

Darrell settled into the driver's seat, and slapped the reins at the mules.

"Ho!" he shouted, and the mules moved on.

Pony took a couple of running steps and vaulted onto his pony's rump, then into the saddle. He looked over his shoulder before galloping after Soda.

Darrel watch them go. It hadn't occurred to either of his brothers that after this drive they'd be relatively rich. Thanks to Darrel's constant vigilance on their cattle, always keeping up with the branding, never letting one stray get away, doing everything he could to insure the health of the herd, the Curtis brothers had the most beeves in the drive. Once they reached the stockyards of Kansas, they would be sharing a sizeable sum.

"Get Pony into a good school" Darrel thought. "Somewhere where book-learning is valuable, not useless. Put Soda's share in a bank—once he gets a taste of a drover's life he's not going to settle down for awhile."

Darrel tried again to think of what his own future might hold, but then, he could worry about that later. Right now he just sighed with relief.

"Free" thought Darrel.

"Yahoo!" Soda urged on his horse. "Tomorrow!" he thought.

Pony was the only one who glanced back, who thought: "Home"

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