The Floating Outfit 10

by J. T. Edson

  Thora watched the steer get to its feet on dry land and felt satisfied that she had helped it. The horse knew what to expect, which was more than she did. Bellowing, the steer was up; its head went down and it charged straight at its rescuer. Thora saw the long horns lashing up. Grabbing the saddlehorn, she hung on as her horse danced aside and slammed iron-shod hooves into the steer’s ribs as it shot by.

  Luckily for Thora her dally slipped and she saw her rope trailing off behind the steer, headed for the open range.

  Dusty and Dude had witnessed everything and the trail boss shook his head to the hand’s suggestion that he should go after the steer. ‘No need for that,’ Dusty remarked.

  Thora went after the steer, caught it and turned it back towards the herd. Riding in close, she tried to get her rope free, but the steer avoided her. Her face flushed red with anger and she started in to call the errant animal everything she could lay tongue too. In her youth, as she had told Dusty, Thora had been raised in Army camps. Now the half-forgotten learnings of those early days poured from her lips.

  Dude rode up and rescued her rope for her and, for the first time, she realized that several hands had been interested and amused listeners to her. They now were all regarding her with broad grins. Tossing her head back she made for the herd. One of the hands gave a wild yell and, whooping, the rest of the riders headed for the battle again. Without realizing it, Thora had passed yet another test.

  From that day on, the men cursed the cattle freely, whether she was there or not. They treated her as an equal while riding the herd. In camp, none of them would have thought of using anything stronger than a damn, and would have tromped any stranger who spoke out of turn; but with the cattle, Thora was one of them. They cursed freely and without embarrassment. So did Thora.

  The herd was watered and moved across the stream and Little Jackie brought his remuda down. Tarbrush was awake and helping; he had come out before the first of the herd were brought down and Dude returned to work the cattle.

  Last across came the two wagons. Salt knew the herd would be bedded down very soon and decided that he would make his camp on the banks of the stream. He wanted to have a meal ready for the first pair of night herders when they returned. Salt had plenty work to do, he had to prepare his camp and get the meal ready for the first men back. The hands had been in the saddle all day without food. If he was late in handing out the meal, Salt knew he would hear a few things about himself from the trail boss. He also guessed Captain Fog would do it real good.

  Halting the wagon, Salt gave his orders to Hobie. They were to put the wagons in position to make a windbreak for the camp. Salt’s two teams knew this as well as he did, and moved into place without fuss. Salt climbed down from his wagon and nodded in approval. The water would be clear soon and he would find plenty of dry wood to make a fire in the small bosque downstream. Near to hand were two trees which were far enough away from each other to be used as supports for a picket rope for the night horses.

  ‘What now?’ Hobie inquired as he climbed down to join his boss.

  ‘Unhitch the teams, fix up the picket line, roust out the cable, start and collect me some firewood. Then, when I’ve got a fire going, you turn all the bedrolls out of the wagon. Then get some water. When you done that, I’ll find you some work.’

  The herd had been formed again after crossing the river and were moving on; but now Mark and Billy Jack crowded in on the lead steer and slowed him down.

  Dusty rode out ahead of the herd and the Ysabel Kid joined him to point out the bed ground he had chosen. The Kid’s judgment in such matters was sound and Dusty saw no objection to the open stretch a half-mile or so ahead. The ground was clear and there were no trees around; the cattle would settle down here with no trouble.

  ‘Make a circle, Lon,’ Dusty ordered. ‘Kiowa’s headed out the other way. Don’t let him shoot you in the leg.’

  ‘Not me. I’m smart.’ The Kid whirled his horse and was gone before Dusty could answer this modest claim.

  Dusty watched the Kid fade into the distance and knew that his pard would find any signs of undesirable company. The Ysabel Kid was also well capable of handling the said company with either his old Dragoon or his Winchester, if such handling proved to be necessary.

  Turning, Dusty headed back for the herd and found that Mark was out on one flank, while Red Tolliver rode the point with Billy Jack. Mark sat his horse and watched the handling of the herd carefully. He had to ensure that the cattle were neither too bunched, nor too scattered, as they were brought towards the bed ground.

  Slowly, imperceptibly to a casual onlooker, the herd’s pace dropped. The big red steer halted and behind him, the rest of the herd came to a stop. The hands started to ride in a circle around the cattle now, each man crooning out as he waited for the herd to settle down. Here and there a steer settled down on the ground and the others started to chew their cud.

  Thora rode to join Dusty and Mark as they sat watching the hands circling the herd. Two hands rode from the herd, then made for the wagons by the stream.

  ‘First night-herd,’ Dusty remarked as he saw Thora watching them. ‘They’re headed back to get their food.’

  ‘When do the rest of the hands get their food?’

  ‘When the night-herd comes back.’

  ‘Fair day’s drive,’ Mark put in. ‘Allow we’ve made sixteen miles. But we won’t make that distance again, not in one day.’

  ‘Nope,’ Dusty agreed, then pointed to the herd. ‘See that black steer; he’s the trouble-causer Mark was talking about.’

  Thora watched the big black charge a muley and drive it from its bedding place. A passing hand eyed the black malevolently and snarled a curse at it. He halted his horse to wait for the cattle to settle down again, then resumed his riding.

  ‘All right, black boy,’ Mark drawled softly as he watched the steer snorting and moving restlessly. ‘You keep on the way you’re going, and ole Salt’ll turn you into a stew come nightfall tomorrow.’

  The hands carried on their riding around the herd as the sun went down and the night-herd came riding back. Then and only then did the men leave the herd and head back for the wagons and the food which awaited them.

  Dusty warned the two night herders about the black steer and made a round of the herd with Thora, then headed for the flickering campfire by the river.

  Tarbrush was holding the remuda down by the river and Mark had cut Thora a night horse ready. By the time she had changed her saddle, Thora felt hungry enough to eat the horse—Texas double-girthed rig and all. She left her night horse on the picket line with the others and noticed that Dusty and Mark left their own horses standing away from the others, not even tied. The Ysabel Kid materialized as she was about to leave her horse; he had his big white and let the horse join the other two.

  Mark pulled the chuck wagon tongue round until it lined on the North Star as Dusty and Thora came into camp. She watched and asked, ‘What’s the idea of that?’

  ‘What we call following the tongue,’ Mark replied. ‘Line the wagon tongue on the North Star at night, and that gives us our direction for the next day’s travel.’

  The hands were all eating and Dude looked up as the Kid went to the table. ‘Where you been all day, Kid?’ he asked. ‘Ain’t seen hide nor hair of you.’

  ‘Now that ain’t right, Dude,’ Basin Jones objected. ‘You knows we saw him and Kiowa asleep under that bush.’

  ‘That’s right,’ the Kid agreed. ‘That’s where we’re some smarter than cowhands. They ride herd, we sleep.’

  Thora went up; she had been warned not to try and eat her food off the bench at the back of the chuck wagon. This was the sole property of the cook and the privilege of eating off it was the highest compliment he could pay to any man. Not even the trail boss could eat from the bench; if he, or any man tried, he got told to move in impolite terms.

  The plate of stew Salt handed her looked very good and was almost thick enough to be cut with a knife. S
he barely noticed this as she mopped up the food with unladylike speed. There were grins from the hands as she handed up her plate for a second helping.

  ‘Ben won’t know you, eating that ways, when you gets back to home, ma’am,’ Red Tolliver remarked as the second plate disappeared. ‘Ain’t but Lil Jackie cleared away his plate as fast as you.’

  ‘Yeah, and the language when that poor lil ole cow took off with her rope,’ another man put in. ‘It war fit to set a man to blushing.’

  ‘Evil associations,’ Thora replied, ‘I was never like this before I met you bunch.’

  The men finished their food and each dropped his plate into the bowl of water. Then each went to where the bedrolls were laying in a pile and sorted his own out. They went back and chose their places round the fire, each man noticing who was on either side of him. This was the order they would sleep in all the way to Dodge. The men would need to know who were their neighbors. This was so that when they came in to relieve the night-herd they could get the right men without waking up the rest of the camp.

  ‘I spread your roll for you in the bed wagon, ma’am.’

  Thora turned to find Hobie standing by her side. She dropped her plate and cup into the water bowl and went to the bed wagon. Inside, a lamp hung from the roof and she looked at her home until she got back to the Rocking H. There was some gear in the wagon, a couple of spare saddles, a keg of good-enoughs—this was the name given to the assorted sizes of ready-made horse shoes which would be used in cases of emergency on the drive. The other gear consisted of oddments needed for the drive.

  Near the gate of the wagon her bed was laid out ready for her. On the floor was a tarpaulin sheet which would serve instead of a mattress. On this were laid four blankets and three thick, quilt-like suggans. For a pillow she had her warbag, which contained her spare clothing for the drive.

  Thora sighed, there wouldn’t be much comfort for her on this trip, that was certain. She sat down on the hard bed of the wagon, then moved on to her bed. On an impulse she lay back, to test how comfortable it was, deciding to have a few moments’ rest before she joined the men round the fire.

  Half an hour later, Salt came round the back of the wagon, climbed in and covered her with the suggans. Then he put out the light and left her to sleep until roll out the following morning.

  The trail crew unrolled their bedrolls now. Each man had much the same—two or three blankets and a couple of the thick, quilt-like suggans, with a warbag for their pillow.

  Billy Jack had his bed made up and he watched Mark unroll his tarp. The big segundo spread the seven by eighteen tarpaulin sheet out on the ground. The tarp had snap hooks down on side and eyes on the other. In wet weather it would be wrapped around the blankets, and if the sleeper was on reasonably well-drained ground, he would sleep dry even in the rain.

  Tonight was fine and Mark spread a blanket on the tarp, then lay the others ready to get into them. Billy Jack eyed the top suggan and remarked, ‘That’s a right smart suggan you got there, Mark. Don’t recollect you having it when we rode for Colonel Charlie.’

  Mark looked at the suggan with some pride. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  Dude studied the material which had made up the suggan; it appeared to have been constructed from the remains of three gingham dresses, several highly colored satin frocks and some less nameable items of female apparel.

  ‘Man’d say you’ve got a tolerable heap of lady-friends—and some of them dressed a mite loud for ladies!’

  ‘Got it up to Quiet Town while we were there,’ Mark explained to Dude as the other men moved in closer. ‘Miz Schulze and Roxie Delue done made it for me while they were getting over the fight in Bearcat Annie’s.’ i

  The trail drive hands had all heard of the great fight in Bearcat Annie’s saloon in Quiet Town, Montana. Three townswomen had fought it out with the owner of the saloon and her girls to enable Dusty, Mark and the Kid to get into the saloon and take a gang of gunmen. From the look of the suggan it had been some fight.

  The men yarned for a time about this and that, then rolled into the blankets. Dusty left the camp to check on the remuda and allow Tarbrush to come for a cup of coffee.

  Eight – Mr. Allison Meets Captain Fog

  The herd moved on steadily to the north, following the tongue. For the first few days, Thora was so stiff and sore that she could hardly bear to move. She gritted her teeth and clung in the saddle all the long days, collapsing into her bedroll at night. The hands watched her dogged courage with admiration, and every one of them felt relieved when she at last got over the stiffness.

  Across the rolling Texas plain the herd moved, covering ten or so miles a day. They crossed the forks of the Brazos, the Prairie dog Fork of the Red and carried on up the sparsely settled lands of the Texas Panhandle. The herd became broken in to the trail, and there was no trouble. The trail crew was a closely knit and compact team. There had been little or no trouble with the cattle, and Thora was getting to be a good hand.

  Sometimes the herd would be visited by riders, either cowhands or ranch-owners. All seemed to be surprised to see a herd so early in the season and most of them either knew, or had heard of Ben. They stopped for a meal if they came in at night, also staying the night if they wished. All offered their best wishes and most were of the impression that the Rocking H crew would handle Kliddoe and Wyatt Earp both. Thora was a source of interest to the visitors; she didn’t know how her crew regarded her as a good luck charm and proudly pointed her out to the visitors as the best dang cow-nurse the West had ever seen.

  One thing Thora noticed was that, although they were eating the muleys, the herd seemed to grow. Any unbranded stock they came across was added to it. Dusty insisted that all branded stock should be chased off as soon as it was located, but unbranded animals were held at the drag until they could have the Rocking H road brand run on them.

  For fourteen days the weather held good and clear. Then they ran into rain. Not just rain, but torrential streams pouring down and flooding over the land. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed as the trail drive hands unstrapped and got into their yellow fish slickers, and rode with their head bent, hunched miserably in the saddle.

  Dusty saw one man riding without his fish and headed back. It was Dude. The handsome young hand looked up as the trail boss appeared by his side and asked where his fish was. ‘Like this, Cap’n,’ he replied. ‘I bought the damned thing new in Granite just afore we left. Toted it every day and near to got it torn yesterday when a steer hooked at me. So I left it behind today.’

  ‘That’s asking for rain. Head back and get it.’

  Dude turned and headed for the bed wagon; he would never have gone without Dusty’s permission and knew there were trail bosses who wouldn’t have given it—not when it meant taking his place in line while he went.

  Salt watched Dude ride up and told him in no uncertain manner just what he thought of a hand who left his fish in the wagon. Dude thanked him politely and rode to the bed wagon, where he collected his gear quietly to avoid disturbing the sleeping nighthawk. Dressed in dry clothing and wearing his fish, Dude headed back for his place by the herd.

  Thora rode alongside the herd; she was uncomfortable and cold, but she kept to her place like the men. She wondered how much longer Dusty would keep moving in this rain. She found out fast enough.

  For five more days it rained just about all the time. The herd was kept moving through the wet, soaking grass and fording rivers which were, to use the trail-drivers’ term, over the willows. The crew used every ounce of their skill at each crossing and the losses to the herd were, by masterly handling, slight. The hands got what sleep they could, for there was no chance of finding some place dry to make a camp. Never were there less than four men with the herd and two men always rode with the remuda. In the five days, Tarbrush and Little Jackie never seemed to be out of their saddles, and even snatched a brief nap whilst riding.

  There was only one consolation about this rain; it beat from the s
outh and helped to keep the cattle headed north. Throughout all the time Salt worked wonders; every morning before the herd was moved on, he had a hot meal for the hands; and again, at night there would be hot food when the men came in. Yet, for all of that, tempers frayed amongst the crew. The hands were touchy as teased rattlers and mean as starving grizzlies. Red-eyed from lack of sleep, dirty and unshaven, they rode, hard-eyed and silent.

  It was at this time Thora saw more than ever what made a trail boss. Dusty was always there; he got less sleep than the other men and always seemed to be in his saddle. Now he was soft-spoken and diplomatic; then, when need be, he became hard, savage and dangerous.

  The crew was round the fire on the fifth night of the rains, each man standing morosely, eating his food. Dusty watched them sensing their mood and knowing that a spark could cause bad trouble.

  Each man was gulping down his food, wolf savage and angry, wet and miserable. Little Jackie came from the side of the wagon, headed for the warmth of the fire Salt had made. The boy was cold, wet and more than half-blinded by the brim of his cheap Woolsey hat falling down. He crashed full into Dude, spilling his food down the rider’s new fish.

  Dude roared in rage as his own plate of stew went down his fish front. The back of his hand lashed round, staggering Little Jackie backwards into Red Tolliver.

  ‘What the hell!’ Red roared, pushing the wrangler aside and facing Dude, who was moving in, fists clenched.

  Dude’s face darkened with sudden anger, his hand dropped towards his hip. Red’s hand fanned down and like the other man’s, clutched his fish over the butt of his gun. With a roar of rage, he hurled himself at Dude. They met like two enraged bulls.

  Dusty and Mark hurled forward to stop the fight; for in these conditions, such a thing could start a full-scale battle. Mark caught Red by the scruff of the neck and hurled him backwards, then spun round to face Dude. But Dusty was there first.