by J. T. Edson
“You Wedge hands all comfortable after your long ride?”
“We sure are, Dusty,” whooped young Rin.
“I aims to go to bed and sleep until the drive starts,” one of the new hands went on.
“Which same’s in less’n one hour from now.”
“Good, then I’ll—WHAT!” The answer began cheerfully enough but ended in a wild yell as the full import of the words hit the man.
“One hour at the most,” Dusty answered. “Get them moving, Waggles. Stone wants the herd headed up and moving before nine o’clock.”
The segundo did not need twice telling. He’d made this sort of fast move before and was on his feet giving orders without even having to think twice about what he was saying or doing.
“Rusty, Silent, go with young Rin and help the night hawk with the remuda. Peaceful, you’ll take point with me. The rest of you know where I want you. Grab your gear and hit the front of the house—pronto!”
It was lucky that the men had not unloaded their bedrolls from the wagon, Vance had offered the loan of blankets for the night to save them unpacking and time would be saved. So there was little to do in the orderly rush as the men prepared to pull out.
Birdie, dressed in her jeans and shirtwaist, still tucking the flap in the back of her waistband, came into the room, paying no attention to the choice and highly colored language which was flying around. She found Chow Willicka, who was throwing his borrowed apron off, leaving Vance’s cook to deal with the feeding of the newly arrived soldiers.
“I bet your wagon’s no where’s nearly ready to roll,” she jeered.
Chow sniffed loftily and chose to ignore the words. He and Birdie got on very well, although they were in a state of feud all the time, which kept them amused and which the hands found highly stimulating. The old man turned to a young soldier who sat near at hand.
“Huh!” he grunted. “Women. Don’t you never go and trust one, son.”
The sergeant was standing close at hand and gave his agreement. “Had me a gal back at home. One night I told her that if she didn’t marry me I’d up and join the Army.”
“And what happened?” asked Birdie.
“She said yes, I married her—and joined the Army a month later.”
“Which same only goes to prove what I allus said—” began Chow.
“Go boil your fool old head!” Birdie snapped, then she and the cook were headed for the door to harness the team of the chuck wagon.
Out in the grounds before the house, the scene lit by lamps brought from the house, men were mounting their horses. The two wagons were ready with teams harnessed and ready to roll. Chow gave his louse a gentle warning that he’d best stick up real close when they pulled out, then swung on to the box of his wagon. Birdie, carrying a wolf skin coat, climbed up beside him. She meant to ride the herd later, but knew she would be more use here out of the way during the tricky night drive ahead.
“Best put that coat on, ma’am,” Chow said. “The night air get’s a mite cold late on.”
“Chow, honey,” she replied with a grin as she struggled into the heavy and warm coat, “I didn’t know you cared.”
He grinned at her. “I don’t, but if you come down with a chill you’ll likely blame it on my cooking. I knows you women.”
The young woman’s blistering reply almost seared the paint off the wagon seat, if there’d been any paint on it. Chow chuckled, then took up the reins and started the chuck wagon forward. The gates were open and the men riding through, into the night, making for the herd,
Eight – Dust Has Its Uses
The men came towards the blind canyon, riding at an easy trot and saving their horses for the work which would come later. The two guards had heard the noise and rightly guessed what was happening. They’d worked fast and the fence was down by the time the trail crew arrived.
Stone Hart moved back and let the men through into the canyon. This was going to be a ticklish business and one that the slightest slip could ruin. The cattle had to be eased off their bed ground and got moving without being scared and sent off in a wild stampede. Stone wanted the herd moving fast, but not at stampede speed. With lesser men he might have been worried about starting the herd, but each man here was an expert, even the new hands had worked on the big inter-state drives from Texas and knew what to do.
The riders entered the valley without fuss or undue noise, keeping to the edges until they reached the blind end. Then they started forward, riding slowly and stirring up the sleeping cattle as they went. Steer after steer came to its feet and began to move before the riders, not panicking, not running, just moving ahead. On the two flanks of the line of men Waggles Harrison and Peaceful Gunn gauged their time right and started to move along the flanks of the herd, the other riders following, tightening the herd of cattle, cutting the bunch down into a thin line. There was a big steer forcing his way through the herd, and as he came out of the canyon opening he found a rider on either side of him. Peaceful and Waggles had the lead steer now, they were at the point with him and would stay there with him until they reached the shipping pens. The rest of the herd followed out of the opening, the swing riders coming in about a third of the way along, then the flank men joining two-thirds of the way from the point. The last steers came out and the drag riders followed them. Back in the canyon Mark Counter and Vance Brownlow were making a careful sweep to make sure that none of the herd had been left behind. Mark was riding with the herd this night, then he would be free of all duties so as to be able to ride with Dusty and the Kid as part of the free-ranging fighting force.
The herd came out, Waggles and Peaceful steering the big leader towards the east and Tombstone City. Then as the cattle moved away Rin and the night hawk came in with the remuda, holding the horses behind the herd at a distance. Chow sat on the wagon box with Birdie beside him. He started his team forward and the wagon lurched into line behind the remuda, the bed-wagon, with the hands’ bedrolls, spare gear and some equipment brought up the rear.
To Vance, riding from the canyon towards Dusty and Stone, it was nothing short of a miracle the way his herd had been got moving in so little time. Stone’s hour was hardly over yet and the cattle were on the move, under control and headed for the market.
Dusty was lounging in his saddle and thinking fast. He was not bothered about the cattle, although he could admire the skilled way in which the Wedge hands got the herd up and moving. He was thinking about the three dead Apache scouts and trying to decide how their death could be turned to further advantage.
“Vance,” he said as the rancher rode up. “Call back at the house. Tell your foreman to keep his guards on the canyon as if the herd was still there. Have the fence erected.” Before he could say more Dusty was interrupted by the arrival of the Ysabel Kid and Johnny Raybold, reporting for their orders as scouts. This was Dusty’s department, although usually it would have fallen on the trail boss to tell them what he wanted doing. “Johnny, get ahead and make a scout. Don’t go too far in front, though. Lon, I want you to take a couple of Vance’s hands out to those dead Apaches. Hide them and try to cover up all their sign. I know you won’t be able to do it perfect, but make sure they can’t be found too easy.”
“I get the idea,” Vance said. “You want to try and fool the Apaches into thinking the herd’s still in the canyon. Then they won’t follow us.”
“It won’t fool them long,” Dusty answered. “But I always allow that any time saved is worthwhile.”
Stone nodded in agreement to this. He was not interested in the way Dusty handled the defense or planned the strategy of the herd. Stone had been a Confederate cavalry officer too, but he knew Dusty was his master when it came to out and out planning of a campaign. Dusty was in charge of tactics, that had been the agreement they made in Tombstone and Stone was willing to let it ride that way. It was a pleasant change to have no other duties than those of handling the cattle.
Dusty and Vance headed back to the house with the Kid, an
d there Vance gave the necessary orders to his foreman. Turning, Vance and Dusty rode through the gates and headed after the herd. Vance was far happier now than he’d been for weeks. This was his chance, the money the herd brought in would enable him to start on the improvements he planned for his ranch.
Vance Brownlow was a man with vision and forethought. He knew that it was a matter of time, months maybe, two years at most, before the pressure of the U.S. Army brought the Apache nation to peace. Then a man could start and build up his herds, put white face cattle which gave good beef on to the range to grow fat on the prime grazing. The half-wild longhorns were a hardy race of cattle, but they left much to be desired in the way of beef and Vance was sure he could improve the stock. The money this herd brought in would go far to doing that for Vance. That was the prize Vance struck for. The herd would make his dream or see it ground into the dirt for nothing. It all depended on the skill of Stone Hart as a trail boss, the loyalty of those hard riding and reckless cowhands and their chances of slipping through the Apache net.
Stone Hart was sitting his big grulla horse to one side of the herd and waiting for them to catch up. His teeth flashed white against the dark blob of his face in the night.
“Nice so far,” he said.
“Easy,” agreed Dusty, stopping his seventeen-hand paint and looking ahead to where a cursing cowhand was chasing a steer back into the moving line. “We’ll make us good time tonight.”
That was only to be expected. The herd were range bred stock and not used to being penned down in one place for long, even in a place as well watered and offering such good and safe grazing as the blind canyon. Once they were out of the canyon mouth they were willing to head off at a good clip. They would stay bunched for safety, with the exception of the odd attempt to break off and hunt pastures new. Right now the steers were wanting to put as many miles as they could between themselves and the canyon, which had been their prison for so long, and the trail crew were in full agreement with this desire. Every mile they could put between themselves and the ranch before dawn gave them just that much time and distance ahead of the Apaches.
The wagons rolled by and Birdie raised her hand in a cheerful wave to which the three men replied. Stone smiled:
“Your lady’ll be real tired come morning.”
“Right now she’s like me,” Vance replied. “Too happy and excited to feel tired at all.”
The three men started their horses again and Stone asked: “Where’s Mark?”
“Riding the swing,” Dusty answered. “He thought he’d give a hand until dawn.”
Soon after the Ysabel Kid came up, his big white stallion moving like a ghost through the night.
“Got it settled,” he said. “Vance’s foreman’ll attend to things. He’s been around in Apache country.”
“Cut off ahead then, Lon,” Dusty answered. “Make a big circle and see what you can find. If you see Johnny, watch him—he might shoot you in the leg.”
“He couldn’t hit me unless he got the gun resting on my Levis,” scoffed the Kid, turning his horse. “Don’t let ’em sneak the herd away from you.”
The Kid’s horse faded once more into the night and Stone turned his horse to head for the point. Vance rode alongside Dusty, having decided to cut himself in on the fighting side instead of riding herd.
“How does a boy as young as the Kid come to know so much about Apaches?”
Dusty grinned towards Vance. “Reckon his grandpappy might have taught him.”
“Was his grandfather an Indian scout?”
“Well no, I don’t reckon Indian scout quite covers it. See, the Kid’s grandpappy is Chief Long Walker of the Comanches.”
The herd was kept moving on through the darkness. The hands took turns to make for the remuda and change their mounts, selecting an animal from their own string even in the blackness of the night. Dusty, Mark and the Kid had spare horses borrowed from Stone’s remuda and they would be able to rest their own mounts, although the three stallions would follow the herd and not be mixed with the other horses.
The time was four o’clock when Stone joined Dusty and Vance again.
“No sign of the Kid yet,” he said.
“He’ll likely be along when he’s good and ready,” Dusty replied. “You know him of old, Stone.”
It was at that moment the Kid and Johnny rode up. Stone grinned. “Talked of the devil and up pops the Ysabel Kid.”
“You’ll be hurting my feelings soon,” warned the Kid.
“Not your better feelings, you never had any,” growled Stone. “Did you find anything, or have you just come back because you felt lonely?”
“I don’t feel lonely,” replied the Kid. “Didn’t out there anyways, not with a camp of about thirty or more Apaches laying out in the brush.”
Vance tried to keep up the same laconic posture and expressionless mien of the other two, but could not restrain an ejaculated “Apache camp?”
“Which same’s just what I said, Colonel,” drawled the Kid. “Comes dawn they’ll all be awake and on the lookout. They’ll see the dust kicked up by the herd and know something’s gone wrong. Then they’ll trail us and hit us when we least expect it.”
“We’ve got to stop that,” Dusty said quietly, showing neither excitement nor worry. “We don’t want them hanging on our flanks.”
“Could you take some of the men and pin them down while the rest of us push the herd on?” asked Vance.
“Not a whoop and whistle in hell’s chance, amigo” Dusty replied. “They’d soon know just how few men were against them, leave ten or so braves to hold us down and the rest come after the herd. You couldn’t run the cattle in flat stampede far enough and fast enough to get clear.”
“If it wasn’t for all the dust we might run around them out of sight and hearing of the camp,” Stone put in. “A camp that size will make things real awkward for us, Dusty.”
Dusty did not reply, he was looking to where ahead of them the herd was moving and at the dark pall of dust which hung in the air. Then he turned his attention back to the Kid and asked:
“I don’t reckon they knew you were about, Lon?”
“I’m back, aren’t I?”
That figured to a man who knew Apaches and Dusty Fog knew them. The Kid would not have blundered blindly into the Apache camp, and walked out again. He must have found it with the aid of his big white stallion, then reconnoitered on foot and in complete silence.
“About thirty you say?” Dusty went on.
“And all braves, not a single, solitary squaw to keep them company.”
Again that figured. The Apache brave did not take his woman along when he put on the paint, took up the war hatchet and went forth to do battle with the hated white-eye brother. With women there the camp might have been just a bunch headed to a fresh camp ground. Without them it only meant one thing. War, fight for the herd of spotted buffalo the white-eye ride-plenties were taking to market.
“What we really need is either a troop or so of cavalry for protection, or more men,” Vance remarked, cutting in on Dusty’s racing thoughts. “And quite frankly, I can’t see us getting either.”
“You’ve got a fair idea,” Dusty agreed. “A troop of cavalry is just what we need. Or at least a whole big bunch of men.” Stone was silent and watching Dusty’s face, trying to pierce the darkness and read what was on his mind. He’d seen Dusty in action before and knew that already the small Texan had a plan worked out.
“Stone,” Dusty said and, although Vance could not tell any difference in the tone, Stone knew things were going to move fast, “I want Mark, Silent, Peaceful, Rusty if you can spare him, and Johnny. You too, Vance if you’ll get your rifle out of the saddle boot.”
“It’ll leave us short-handed, but we’ll make out,” Stone replied. “Reckon Birdie’ll lend a hand with the herd, Vance?”
“Try and stop her, old boy,” Vance chuckled. “I’ll ride on and tell her.”
“Hold hard there, Vance,”
Dusty cut in. “Don’t go off until you know what I want doing. Tell Chow I want some empty sacks, then stop the bed wagon and cut eight lengths of rope from that coil in the back. Make them long enough so they’ll hang down from the saddlehorn and reach the ground with some trailing. Tell Chow I’m real sorry, but that Stone’ll pay him double time, seeing as it’s after midnight.”
The men scattered and in a short time Birdie was afork a cowpony riding the flank of the herd, while on the other side Rin, fetched up from the remuda, proudly rode as a cowhand. The men Dusty called for lined up before him, peering through the darkness towards the man they knew as the finest light cavalry commander the Civil War had produced. There was a tense and expectant air about them all, for they knew that something was afoot. Half the crew were here, almost all of Stone’s loyal and hard riding hands. Taken with Mark Counter, Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid, and not forgetting Vance Brownlow, it was a fighting force to be reckoned with.
“What’s on your tricky lil ole mind now, Dusty,’ asked the Kid.
“Real army strategy, amigo,” Dusty replied. “And when Vance gets back I’ll explain it to you.”
From ahead they could hear the blistering, hide-searing curses which came from Chow Willicka as he lent Vance a hand in the back of the bed wagon. There were many highly original curses heaped on the head of Dusty Fog, for Chow did not wish to fall behind the herd, not when he might have to tire his horses catching up. For all the curses, Chow would no more have thought about arguing or disobeying Dusty’s command than he would of not following Stone’s word.
“Now, gentlemen,” Dusty drawled as Vance rode up carrying the sacks and lengths of rope.
“Something tells me I ain’t going to like this,” Silent Churchman whispered to the Kid.
“Out ahead of us there’s a camp of about thirty head, all bucks and all armed unless Mr. Loncey Dalton Ysabel’s called the play wrong,” Dusty went on, ignoring the interruption. “So we’re going to outnumber them.”