"Beans" -- July 13

Word count: 500

Beans

“Clayton! Billy and Joe are down.”

“Both of them?”

“Sicker ‘n dogs.”

Clayton tipped his hat back to rub his sweaty forehead. From horseback, he commanded a view of thousands of cattle, raising a cloud of dust as they drifted. On the outskirts of the herd rode tiny specks of men, keeping the cattle from drifting too far.

Clayton was already understaffed and had the boys working extra hard to keep track of all the cattle. Billy and Joe were his two best bosses.

“What’s the matter with them?” Clayton asked.

“Same as the rest. Stomachache.”

Clayton looked out toward the sun, beginning to lower toward the horizon. They ought to have made another five miles today.

“Bring ‘em in. Tell the boys to keep away from the sick.”

The other man, a lanky cowboy in two layers of chaps, protested. “We can’t just stay here! We’ve got to have this herd in the yard by sundown Saturday.”

“We can’t drive it with half the boys too sick to ride, can we? Now bring ‘em in.”

Clayton dismounted and led his horse to the makeshift pen. He hung his saddle on the gate beside a few others and headed for the chuck wagon, small and dingy white on the horizon.

A group of men lay huddled on the ground, wrapped in their sturdy blankets. Hats, chaps, spurs, boots lay in a haphazard pile beside them. Their faces were deathly pale.

Clayton stopped and leaned over them. “Doing all right, boys?”

They answered with shaking heads and a chorus of groans. Over the smell of horses and cattle and dust there was a sharp smell of sickness. Clayton took shallow breaths.

“What’s causin’ this?”

More groans. “No one knows,” someone mumbled. He looked like he’d rather be dead than alive.

Dylan stood at the back of the chuck wagon, ladling himself a plate of thick beans. He leaned against the back wheel while he ate.

“What do you suppose is causin’ this?” he asked Clayton.

Clayton took a spoonful of the beans and leaned against the other wheel. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Hoping it moves out by tomorrow.”

“You think someone might be poisoning them?”

Clayton frowned as he shoveled beans into his mouth. “I don’t know who—”

He stopped himself. He’d never tasted beans like this before. He leaned into the chuck wagon.

“Clive.”

“Yeah, Clayton.”

“When did you make these beans?”

“Last night.” The cook emerged, drying his hands.

“Uh-huh. And what did you put in them?”

Now it was the cook’s turn to frown. “What?”

“Just show me,” Clayton said.

The cook reached back into the shadows and handed Clayton a bottle. “Just a bottle of season—”

“You idiot!” Clayton shouted, shaking the bottle at Clive. “I thought I told you not to visit those quack doctors when we’re in town!”

Clive grabbed the bottle and held it close to nearsighted eyes. The illness ravaging the camp slowly became clear.

The bottle read Hair Tonic.