by J. T. Edson
‘If he does,’ Dusty growled, ‘he’ll surely wish he’d never been born.’
The Ysabel Kid saw Dusty coming back and called, ‘Set up that cable over here.’ The four hands took up the heavy rope and carried it to the place Lon had pointed out. One man was at each end, and the two others pulled the center back to form a loose U shape. This was the only corral they would use all the way north. To someone who didn’t know Western horses this might look like a flimsy enclosure, but every horse in the remuda had learned early and painfully what a rope was.
Little Jackie and Tarbrush sat their mounts on either side of the corral gate as the Rocking H wrangler opened it and allowed the horses to come out. The two riders came on either side and, without fuss or bother, hazed the horses into the cable corral. The horses halted and milled around, and the four rope-holders shook the cable a few times just to remind the remuda what it was.
‘Boy handles the remuda all right,’ Mark drawled as they watched the corralling of the horses.
‘Sure, time he gets to Dodge he’ll have made a hand, and next time he goes, he’ll be ready to ride the herd,’ Dusty answered. Then, he frowned and growled, ‘Look!’
A big black gelding cut back from the milling horses, out of the corral and broke for the open range. Mark started his horse forward but Jackie had already turned it back towards the corral.
‘Red, take the cable over there a piece. Jackie, Tarbrush, bring them in again.’
Red Tolliver, at the cable, acknowledged the order with a wave. Then he lowered his end of the cable. The other holders let the rope go down and backed off to reform the loose U a couple of hundred yards away. Again the horses were brought in and, once more, the black broke back out.
‘All right, move the cable again.’ Dusty sounded grim.
On the porch, Thora and Ben were watching. The rancher explained to his wife all that was happening. They saw the new cable set up again; the remuda was driven in and then the black broke out once more. Ben’s hands gripped the arms of his chair and, in a roar which was echoed by every watching man, he yelled, ‘Takes his toes up!’
Dusty had reached forward and unstrapped his rope as the third corralling commenced. When the black broke back out, he was ready—and so was the wiry dun roping horse he had borrowed for the ride to the herd. A touch sent the little horse leaping forward. It knew just what it was supposed to do as it moved to the rear and left of the big black.
The sixty-foot rope came alive in Dusty’s hands, a medium-sized loop building, forming and sailing out. The noose passed across the horse and slightly ahead of its right shoulder, then dropped into position to trap the feet. Dusty gave his rope an inward twist as the noose dropped. This turned the loop to hit against the horses knees, and then trap the feet.
Up to that moment, the black ran blithely on, confident that it was the master of its destiny and the two-legged things were impotent against it. Then its forelegs suddenly locked tight together and it landed with a bone-jarring thud, trapped by Dusty’s well-executed forefoot throw.
Thora leapt to her feet as the horse smashed down, her face shocked and angry, ‘Did you see that?’
‘Sure did, honey. That Dusty can handle a rope.’
‘But he could have broken that horse’s neck!’ She gasped, ‘It was a dangerous thing to do.’
‘Reckon Dusty’d rather have bust the horse’s neck than have him break out like that. Breaking out’s the worst thing a remuda horse can do. It’s catching and can ruin the remuda.’
Ben watched Dusty release the black and point out another place for the cable corral to be set up. ‘I’ll bet he doesn’t break back out again.’
Thora watched the shifting of the cable again and, once more, the horses were driven in. This time, she noticed, the big black didn’t try and break back.
Tarbrush and Little Jackie rode around the cable corral and the Negro turned to the youngster. ‘You watch real careful now, Jackie boy,’ he warned. ‘They’s going to have their choosing match and we’ve got to know who all has what.’
Dusty rode forward and looked round the milling horses. A wiry, smallish bay caught his eye and he spun his rope up to catch the horse, then lead it out. Releasing the bay, he headed back and picked out the rest of his mounts. The other hands watched the choosing, and noted with approval that their trail boss was taking the rough string. Every horse he picked bore the look of a fighter, a horse it would take a good man to handle.
In a choosing match the men took turn in order of seniority with the ranch; in this case, in the order they had been hired in town. Mark had second choice; he picked out the biggest horses, five of them, including the big black. These joined Dusty’s mounts in the care of the wranglers and the Ysabel Kid rode out.
Ignoring the remuda, the Kid went straight to the ranch house and halted before the porch. ‘Ben, you got anything with a mite of speed? I don’t want to take cow horses for riding scout.’
‘Got just what you do want, amigo,’ Ben replied. ‘Comanche war relay that I bought off a brave. They’re in the small corral, at the back of the spread. You go and look them over.’
There was joy in the Kid’s heart as he headed round the house and looked over three horses in the small corral. Riding scout was a dangerous enough task any time; and the horses a man had could mean the difference between living to be old and ornery and making a hair decoration on some scalp hunting buck’s belt.
The three horses were small, rough-coated and wiry, yet they were alike in one thing. Each was powerfully muscled and looked as if it could run forever. More, they had been trained as a warrior’s relay by a tribe who were horsemen without equal. The three horses had been trained to run together, their rider on one and the other two following him. All in all, they were just what the Ysabel Kid wanted when he rode scout for the herd. Opening the corral gate the Kid drove the three horses out and headed them towards the group of horses being held by Little Jackie and Tarbrush.
Little Jackie watched the increasing remuda and felt nervous. He could see there was much more to handling a trail-drive remuda than there had been to working as ranch wrangler. However he would have one advantage in that the remuda would not increase in size much; on the drive, they would not have many visitors, whilst, at a ranch, there was always a chance that someone would ride up and add his string to the wrangler’s cares. The youngster watched the horses and realized that he would have to remember every man’s mount and know all their habits. He would have to learn, and learn fast, which were the bunch-quitters, the fighters, the nervous and the mean horses, if he was to do his work properly.
Each man took the horses he would need and added them to the trail remuda. Then Dusty picked out ten spare horses. The ranch wrangler cut out Thora’s mount for her and added them to the bunch belonging to the trail crew.
The sun was going down but the men still had time to ride out some of their mounts and get the bedsprings out of their backs. Each man cut out one of the horses, saddled it and then hopped aboard, hoping for the best.
What followed was a display of riding that would have drawn big crowds in the East. Here, it drew only sarcastic jeers and cheerful advice from the watchers.
The horses bucked, leapt, sun fished and tried to get rid of their riders; occasionally one was successful but the man got back to his feet and mounted again. To let a horse end a winner gave it bad habits and encouraged it to try again.
‘Ketch my saddle!’
Billy Jack went off his horse and howled the time-honored cry as he lit on the ground.
It was Dusty who obliged by returning the doleful one’s saddle along with the ranch horse. ‘You resting already?’ he asked.
‘Why sure, likewise wondering when we’re going to see the trail boss ride any of his string.’
Dusty laughed, tossed Billy Jack the reins and then rode to the remuda to cut out one of his string. He took the conceit out of the horse in chunks and then went on to do the same with the others.
The trail hands were correct in their guess; Dusty had taken the rough string, every horse here was a fighter as well as a trained cow horse. The hands also had their views confirmed; Captain Fog was the best horseman of them all and he would have little or no trouble with his mounts.
The night was coming in fast when Dusty rode the last of his string to the side of the two chuck wagons and looked down at the cook and his fat, cheerful young louse.
Salt was unaware that he was being watched and proudly displayed a five-gallon wooden keg to his louse. ‘This here’s the best danged sourdough keg you’ll ever see,’ he said proudly. ‘You kin sleep with it tonight and make sure you take care of it.’
Hobie accepted the keg reverently, for he knew the value the trail crew would set in it. The sourdough keg was the most important item the chuck wagon carried and was Salt’s most treasured possession. In the keg was fermenting dough, ready for bread—or biscuit making; it took time to prepare and without it the crew would be on short rations.
Wrapping the keg in blankets, Hobie asked, ‘When you going to let me make up a keg of my own?’
‘Happen you’re careful and l’arn well, in about ten, fifteen years.’ Salt answered, then looked up. ‘Howdy, Cap’n.’
‘You pair all ready to roll first thing tomorrow?’
‘Allus ready,’ Salt replied. ‘And, comes Dodge, we’ll slap ole Sam Snenton’s brand on this here ole keg.’
‘Happen you haven’t poisoned us all before that,’ Dusty scoffed. ‘You keep them fool knobheads back where they belong and don’t crowd the remuda. Iffen you don’t, I’ll likely slap my brand somewhere and it won’t be on a keg.’
Before Salt could think up any reply to either suggestion that he would let his mules get too close to the remuda, or that he might poison the crew, Dusty had turned the horse and headed for the remuda.
The two wranglers watched the trail boss come up and Dusty pointed towards the stream behind the ranch house. ‘Hold them down here tonight,’ he ordered as he stripped off the saddle, then turned the horses in with the others. ‘Keep my paint and Mark’s blood bay away from the others.’
‘Yes, sah, Cap’n.’ Tarbrush rolled his eyes and waved his hand towards the Kid’s big white as it grazed away from the others. ‘I surely hopes Massa Kid ain’t going to put his hoss in with the rest of the remuda.’
‘He isn’t.’ Dusty could see that his nighthawk had a keen eye for the character of a horse. ‘He’ll stay clear—and Jackie, don’t you ever try and touch that white, happen you want to keep both arms.’
‘Boy,’ Tarbrush waited until Dusty strolled away with his saddle slung over his shoulder, ‘them is the truest word you’ll ever hear. That hoss there looks meaner than two starving devil-cats.’
Ben and Thora entertained the three young Texans at the house that night. After the meal was over, they sat in the dining room and talked. Thora brought in coffee for the men and stopped as she heard them discussing the happenings of the day. She came in as they were mentioning the man who had tried to get taken on as wrangler.
‘Wisht Billy Jack’d spoken sooner about him being a Kliddoe man,’ the Kid said mildly. ‘I’d have spoken loving words with him.’
Thora frowned; she didn’t want to let them get thinking about the man again, so she asked, ‘How does Kliddoe work?’
‘Ole Yellerdawg?’ The Kid sniffed. ‘He takes head tax on the herd.’
‘Head tax?’
‘Sure, it’s an old game,’ Mark explained. ‘Came out when the first drives went north after the war. He used to come on the herd backed by fifty or so men and claim he’d been sent out by the Governor to take head tax on the herds. He had a real legal-looking bit of paper and his men backed it up. It worked for a spell—either the drives paid off or they fought and they were outnumbered. Then Stone Hart and his Wedge crew called his bluff, that was over Abilene way. They drove over the Kliddoe bunch and got through. Kliddoe went into hiding after that, the Governor came out flat-footed and said he wasn’t aware that Kliddoe worked for him. Wall, we got word that Kliddoe started after your drive last year, but he ran into bad luck. Shangai Pierce’s scout found where they were at and, when Kliddoe tried to take the herd, they had him whipsawed. Kliddoe and some of his men got clear. Shangai and his boys gave the rest a coat of molasses and feathers and turned them adrift. They missed Kliddoe though—he got clear.’
‘Trust ole Yellerdawg!’ The Kid sneered. ‘Regular ole Yankee hero, him. Real loyal blue-belly.’
All eyes went to the dark youngster, Ben and Thora wondering at the vicious hardness in his voice. Thora wondered where the Ysabel Kid had known the Yankee leader, Jethro Kliddoe. ‘Do you know him?’ she asked.
‘Never met him. Came across a real good friend of his in the war though.’
‘What happened?’ Thora had asked before she realized that she had gone beyond the bounds of frontier friendliness.
‘He died happy, I guess.’ The Kid rolled a smoke as he replied. ‘One day I’m going to meet ole Yellerdawg—and. when I do I’ll make him wish his maw never met his pappy the one time she did!’
Dusty and Mark remembered other times when the name of Kliddoe had been mentioned. Every time that same alum-bitter snarl had come into their pard’s tones, although he had never told them why he hated Kliddoe.
‘Reckon we’d best turn in,’ Dusty remarked. ‘You’d best get some sleep, Cousin Thora, likely you’ll be needing.’
‘What time will we be leaving tomorrow?’ she inquired as the three Texans rose.
‘Soon after sunup as we can,’ Dusty replied. ‘See you in the morning.’
The rest of the trail crew were in their bedrolls already; they were getting a good night’s sleep for what might be the last time until the drive was over.
Dusty, Mark and the Kid spread their rolls away from the others—not through any sense of superiority, but because they didn’t want to disturb the rest. Dusty looked around the area, then snapped the clips of his tarp and went to sleep.
~*~
The Ysabel Kid woke. There was no half-waking-half-sleeping period for him, just a swift transition from sleep to full alertness. He didn’t move, just lay still waiting to locate the sound that had wakened him. It wasn’t the distant sound of the nighthawk riding his rounds; that sound had never stopped and hadn’t wakened him. It wasn’t the stamping and movement of the trail crews’ night horses. Slowly he emerged from his bedroll, his old Dragoon in his right hand. The sound which had wakened him came from the dark bulk of the two wagons and it was towards these he made his way. The rest of the crew were still all asleep around the dying embers of their fire.
The few seconds delay caused the Kid to curse himself several times in the next few hours.
From the chuck wagon sounded a muffled yell, then a thud. Dark shapes moved from the rear of the wagon. The Kid wasted no time; he darted forward and barked, ‘Hold it!’
There were three shapes. Leaping from the wagon, they ran into the blackness towards a smaller, darker shape—either a buggy or a buckboard, the Kid guessed. One of the men threw something into the back of the wagon and then leapt aboard. The other two grabbed horses and all set off away fast.
The old Dragoon boomed in the darkness, flame lancing from the muzzle. He knew he had missed and raced to the side of the wagon; but he was too late to get in another shot.
Men yelled and shouted and the camp was awake. Dusty was the first man to join the Kid. ‘What the hell, Lon?’
A groan from the back of the wagon stopped any reply. Dusty and the Kid went to the tailboard and Dusty lit a match. Hobie lay on the bed of the wagon, blood running from a gash in his scalp. The blankets were all thrown about and, in the last instant before Dusty had to throw the spent match to one side, he saw what was missing.
The small Texan cursed savagely. The sourdough keg was gone.
Five – Mr. Toon Learns a Lesson
Dusty took in the sight and made his decision right away. Eve
n as the other men gathered round, asking questions and yelling for lights, he snapped, ‘Lon, Kiowa, get it back.’ Neither man wasted time in obeying this casually given order to do the almost impossible. Kiowa didn’t even know what was missing, but he didn’t wait to ask about it. Indian smart, he had his night horse staked near to hand, saddled, and only needing the girths drawing tight. He ran for the horse even as the Kid’s shrill whistle shattered the night and brought the big white horse running to him.
Mark came up. He tossed the Kid his gunbelt and then stood back, holding the rifle. He knew that in a delicate matter of this nature Mr. O. F. Winchester’s ·44 brainchild was of as much use as old Colonel Sam’s heavyweight thumb-buster, or Mr. James Black’s razor-edged bowie knife.
Salt was by the chuck wagon. He howled in fury when he saw that his precious keg was gone. Running to where the night horses were tethered he grabbed one without asking who might own it. Tightening the girths, he swung into the saddle and headed for the wagon to get his old Sharp’s carbine...
The Kid was a’fork his white without bothering with such refinements as saddle or bridle. He thrust the Dragoon into his waistband and strapped on the belt, then holstered the revolver and caught the rifle Mark tossed to him. Then he and Kiowa lit out into the night.
Salt tore by the crew, waving his rifle and yelling, ‘I’ll get ’em.’
‘They’re on our side,’ Mark called after him.
The rest of the trail crew whooped their approval, even Basin Jones who owned the horse Salt had taken. Dusty turned to the men and gave his orders: ‘Fix young Hobie’s head, Dude,’ he snapped. ‘Rest of you get back to sleep.’
Thora came up wearing a long house coat and Indian moccasins on her feet. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Somebody stole the sourdough keg.’
Thora felt like sobbing; this was the final blow. To get so near to starting the herd and then to find that they would be delayed until Salt could make up another keg seemed like the height of injustice to her. She was near to tears as she said, ‘Then we can’t start tomorrow.’