by J. T. Edson
“Never figured you’d forget how to count, Dusty,” Rusty Willis put in and waved a hand along the line. “There ain’t no where’s near thirty of us.”
“That could bring a ticklish point,” admitted Dusty. “Especially if the Apache get to know how few of us there really are. We’ve got to make sure they don’t—until it’s too late. That bunch has to be stopped following us and maybe picking us off one at a time from behind rocks. We’ve got to try and slow them down some so that they can’t get to the main bunch in time to warn them we’re out. Or at least slow them so they’ll not give the main bunch a chance to pick their place and hit us.”
“That’s fair enough, Dusty,” Mark drawled. “How’re we going to do it?”
“We’re coming in at them just before dawn, with the wind behind us, and we’re coming in whooping and yelling like a drunk Comanche coming to make talk. I want all the noise you’ve got, shooting, hollering, that’s why I’ve got Silent along. Pass out the ropes and sacks, Vance.”
“Chow would only part with five sacks,” Vance replied.
“The rest will have to haul mesquite scrub or anything heavy behind them to stir up the dust. Pass the sacks around and then get them weighted down with rocks!”
The men all got Dusty’s idea. It was a good one and, given any amount of good Texas luck, it would work. If it didn’t— well, there wouldn’t be too much time to worry over it. If it failed, the only thing they could do would be try and take as many of the Apache with them before they went under.
The Apache camp was silent, the first streaks of dawn’s light coming in the east. Not a brave stirred as they lay around the small fires, blanket wrapped and still, their weapons sharing the blankets with them. Every brave lay there, some dreaming of the fighting and the coups they would take, others were dreaming of the loot from the ride-plenties who were with the herd of white man’s buffalo. It would be hard-won loot, for no ride-plenty ever was taken without a fight. The cattle meant little to the Apache except as a means of trade. Below the border, where the soldier-coats could not follow, were men who would trade repeating rifles, blankets, whiskey or tequila for the spotted buffalo the cowboys drove.
There were no guards around the camp; the Apache was too light a sleeper to need any. Each brave slept in peace, for there was no word from the scouts that the herd of cattle had been driven from the blind canyon where it had lain safe under the rifles of the ranch crew. It was not a luxurious camp, with no wickiups set up, for there were no women along to perform this menial but essential task. The braves wore paint, they were ready for war and in war women had no place.
Of all the Apache band, only the two young boys brought along to tend to the herd watching were not in their blankets. They sat their wiry ponies, asleep on the job of watching the war relays of the warriors. The two bangtail scrub ponies of the herd-boys were also sleeping, standing, and the rest of the bunch of horses was settled down, giving no trouble and making no noise.
The wiry paint pony ridden by one of the herd boys suddenly came awake, its head jerked up and it snorted loudly. The boy astride it woke, jerking erect and staring around him, his mouth opening to let out a wolf-howl of warning. He was a full twenty seconds too late. The horses of the warriors were coming to their feet in a wild and snorting panic, eyes rolling and ready to bolt.
Deadened by the soft sandy soil, the hooves of horses sounded. A large cloud of dust welled up and from it came a hideous cacophony of wild cowhand yells, whoops, screams and the blood-chilling scalp howl of a Comanche Dog Soldier.
The young horse herder went backwards from his pony’s blanket, a hole between his eyes, his startled yell ending unborn by a fast taken shot from one of the riders of the dust.
The second horse herder was lucky. His pony gave a wild leap which sent him flying from its back. He lit down with a catlike agility but was an instant too late, for the entire bunch of horses were up and running. The boy turned, hurdled a small bush, landed rolling into the shelter of a rock, where he lay out of sight until the raiders went by.
“Get the horses through the camp!” Dusty Fog’s voice peeled out even above the rest of the noise.
The chief of the small band was fast asleep and dreaming of the great killing of white-eyes he would make when he traded his part of the herd for a repeating rifle. Yet from fast asleep and pleasant dreams to full awake, blankets thrown off and on his feet holding a single-shot Springfield carbine looted from a dead cavalryman in some long-forgotten frontier fight, was work of a second. The rest of the band were also waking, coming up to their feet with wild yells, grabbing their weapons. But like the herd boy they woke full twenty seconds too late.
Into the camp area came the charging, stampeding horses, the dust they kicked up more than doubling that stirred by the hooves of the attacking party’s horses and the weighted sacks or mesquite scrub each man dragged.
Yelling, shooting, almost half-blind by the dust, the men charged their stampede in among the Apaches. It was one of the few times the Apaches were taken by surprise. They did not know for sure how many men were attacking them, and before their startled, sleep-slowed minds worked the horses were gone, the cloud of dust settling on the camp and billowing high over the cowhands who kept the stampede going, making sure the horses were not easily found again.
It was over and done with now. Two miles from the camp Dusty allowed his men to remove the sacks, empty them and cast off the mesquite scrubs. He wanted to be sure they were out of sight of the Apaches before allowing the dust to settle. The camp had been disrupted, the braves scattered and running in all directions, disappearing behind rocks and under bushes in the Apache way. It would never do to let them see how small a force was involved in the raid. The Apaches might run before a sudden and unexpected attack, but they’d be ready and willing to take on the cowhands if they found out how few the party numbered. They would hit all the harder and with more savage rage to recover their lost face.
The Apache horses scattered, sped on their way by shots and wild cowhand yells. Not one of those half-wild broomtails would stop running until it was exhausted and that would not be for miles. The Apaches would have a long time ahead of them before they caught their scattered mounts. It would take them time to get to the main bunch on foot, too, Dusty was sure of that.
Bringing his big paint to a halt, Dusty waited until the dust settled, then turned to the others, a grin splitting his face, which was covered in dust.
“Coil up those ropes and empty the sacks,” he ordered.
“And take the sacks with you. We might need to pull that game again.”
Through the mask of dust and grime the Kid grinned, his white teeth a strange contrast. “It’s not likely to work twice. Fact being I didn’t even reckon it would work once.”
“We were lucky,” Dusty answered.
“Lucky nothing, Dusty,” snorted Vance. “You planned to hit them while they were asleep, take them when they least expected it. Now they don’t know for sure if the herd’s moving or how big an escort we have.”
“Could be your guess’s a meat-in-the-pot hit,” chuckled Mark. “Only don’t let ole Dusty know it. He’ll take on airs and then half a dozen or so of us’ll have to settle on him and talk him back to normal. Last time he took on airs that way was when he read what some Yankee colonel said about how he handled Troop C of the Texas Light in the war. It took eight of us and a couple of hours to tucker him out and throw him in the hoss trough.”
Vance laughed, then he turned to look at Dusty with fresh interest. “Of course,” he said. “You’re the Captain Fog. I never connected you with him. You couldn’t have been very old then.”
“I was seventeen,” Dusty replied. “Almost eighteen when the war ended.”
“Gad! I heard about you. Colonel Houghton-Rand, my old commanding officer, was out here as a military observer with the Union Army. He met you when you killed that General in a duel.”
Dusty smiled, lounging back in his saddle. Th
at was long ago, but he still remembered the day when he faced General Buller on the field of honor and killed the Union Army officer. The British colonel had been his second and Dusty remembered him well. That Vance had heard of Dusty was not surprising, for in the War Dusty’s use of his troop had changed military thinking on light cavalry tactics.
There was no time now to think back about the old days, to dream of what might have been had the South won the War. No doubt Dusty would now have been at least a colonel handling a regiment. However, he was not worried, he was content with his lot and the men he led. The OD Connected ranch’s crew were as good as any regiment.
“Let’s get back to the herd,” he ordered as his raiding party finished emptying the sacks, casting off the mesquite bushes and coiling the ropes.
Vance rode by Dusty Fog, silent for a time, then he laughed.
“Something amusing you, amigo?” Dusty asked.
“I’ve been cursing this dust ever since I came out here,” Vance replied. “But now I’m going to change my mind. Yes sir, Dusty. Now I know that dust has its uses.”
Nine – The Kid Brings Word
“Come and get it afore I throw it to the hawgs!”
Chow Willicka rubbed his hands on his apron and let out the time honored bellow which served the cowhand as did mess call the soldier. The old cook stood by the big stewpot, ladle ready to fill the plates of the hungry trail crew as they filed past him.
It was the fifth day out from the ranch, the herd was making good time and there’d been no sign of Apaches since busting up that bunch on the first morning. For all that, Dusty did not relax his vigilance. He, Mark and Johnny rode a circle around the moving cattle, the Kid ranging far ahead. Then two days back the Kid had come to the chuck wagon as Chow and Birdie served out the morning meal. He asked for and was given dry rations for three days, then rode out. That was the last they’d seen of him, where he’d gone and what he was doing was known only to Dusty Fog and Stone Hart.
Dusty collected his food and joined Stone by the fire. Not even the trail boss was allowed to take his meal off the lowered boards at the rear of the chuck-wagon, that was the cook’s private domain. So Dusty and Stone settled down on their haunches, as they’d both done so many times before.
“No sign of the Kid yet?” Stone asked.
“Not likely to be tonight,” Dusty replied. “The river’s still two days away. He’s not riding a relay.”
Stone nodded thoughtfully. The Kid was scouting the ford of the Carne River for possible Apache ambush. It would take him time and he would have to rest his big white stallion after so much hard and grueling work. On the Kid’s news depended an important decision. The Carne River was for most of its length fast and with high sheer walls dropping down to it. There was only one way to get the herd across that Stone knew of. To the north lay a place where the banks shelved down in a gentle slope and the river widened to make a deep, slow moving pool through which the cattle would swim with little or no difficulty. It was a two-day drive, about twenty-four miles to this ford, although the river itself was only about one day’s drive from them in a straight line. There was a small snag to that. Stone did not know in what manner the river stood straight ahead, for this side’s banks were thickly overgrown with trees and bushes. To try and push a herd blindly into thick wooded country like that would be asking for trouble and could result in the loss of a good half of the cattle.
The woods had been a source of much discussion between Dusty and Stone. It didn’t take a master-mind to figure the Apaches would have the main ford under heavy guard, if not actually covering it in full strength. But there was no sense in pushing blindly into the woods if they were to find the river impassable through the same high banks which marked most of its length. It would be foolish and worse than foolish to drive the cattle into the woods, then find they had to turn upstream and use the main ford anyway. That was one of the reasons the Kid was riding scout now. To see what the ford in the open country looked like and then try and find a second way they might cross the river.
Dusty finished his meal. It was dark now and other men were starting their usual horseplay, engaged in what had become a favorite pastime, stirring up a feud between Birdie and Chow.
“Say, Miz Birdie,” Rusty Willis called. “I sure bet you made this stew.”
Birdie grinned. “I did, how did you know?”
“Easy. Old Chow’s tastes like he’s washed his shirt in it,” Rusty answered. “Now yours, why ma’am, it tastes the same, ’cepting you use that fancy smelling ladies’ soap.”
“How long have this bunch been like this?” Birdie demanded, eyeing Chow belligerently.
“They was all right until they started eating women’s fixings,” Chow answered. “Which same goes to prove—”
“It doesn’t prove nothing, ’cept that they’ve had their tastes spoiled by a wored out old chow wrecker,” Birdie yelled back.
The argument grew more heated by the minute, yet for all that there was nothing in it. Chow found having Birdie working with him a most novel and stimulating experience. On the ride out to the ranch she’d left him to handle things and he’d been polite, well spoken, on his dignity around her. Their relationship was strained for the first day, with Chow bottling up his feelings and admonishing his regular louse in so gentle a manner that the gangling youngster thought he was ill. Then on the second morning he’d heard Birdie cursing one of the team horses in a manner which left nothing to be desired to breadth of knowledge or depth of fluency. From that moment on Chow carried on as normal and his louse breathed a sigh of relief.
Dusty and Stone listened to the argument growing, laughing at the retorts which flashed back and forwards. Then, with their meal finished, they went to the bin of hot water and dropped the plates in. Coffee mugs in hand, the two men headed for the bed wagon. The back was let down and a lantern hung inside it. Birdie used the wagon for sleeping and her bed roll was spread ready. Stone climbed into the wagon, went to where a small box was firmly fitted to the side. He lifted the lid and took out a large Army map of the area which he’d brought from Vance’s ranch. Moving back to the end of the wagon, he sat on the board and spread the map out. Dusty leaned by the wagon and in the light of the lamp they started to study the map once more, checking over the details of the range with their memory of the trip out.
“Still worrying over that map?” Vance asked as he walked towards them.
“Sure,” Dusty agreed. “Have you ever run a herd into Tombstone before?”
“No, this’s the first shipping herd I’ve been able to move since I took over. The man I bought the ranch from ran two in.”
“Which way did he go?” Stone inquired.
“Up to the ford where we crossed, but the Apaches were at peace then. He told me he’d seen a small hunting party as he was crossing the river.”
Stone ran a finger along the map, following the course of the Carne River. He tapped a cross marked on the river’s coarse.
“There’s another crossing here.”
“I know,” Dusty agreed. “Six days’ drive over rough country. We’d never make Tombstone in time for the Fair and a herd this size wouldn’t bring much of a price there at any other time.”
“We’ll have to decide by noon tomorrow at the latest,” Stone warned. “That’s when we’ll have to start swinging north to the open country ford, or south where we might be safe, even if we don’t get the herd in on time.”
“I’m in your hands, Stone,” Vance replied, then showed the sort of spirit which made the English gentleman what he was. “If it’ll save lives, I say hang the Fair and the money, take the southern route.”
Stone and Dusty looked at Vance with open admiration.
The Englishman’s hopes were based on this herd, on the money selling it at the Fair would bring in. Yet to prevent them losing men he was willing to sacrifice it all, take the long route to Tombstone and miss the big money which the herd would undoubtedly command in the meat-starved tow
n.
Stone grinned. “Thanks for saying that, Vance. There’s few enough who would have. You took me and my boys on to get your herd to Tombstone in time for the Fair and that’s what we aim to do. The Wedge has never failed to push a herd on to market and this isn’t going to be the first time. How do you feel, Dusty?”
“I’m in this root, hog or die,” Dusty drawled. “And I’m sure not fixing in to let any Apaches push me any place.”
“Then I—”
Vance began to say something to show his gratitude, but the words ended before they’d really begun. Dusty and Stone came off the wagon, their hands bringing the guns from leather as they peered into the darkness.
“Douse that light, Vance!” Dusty snapped. “We’ve got visitors.”
It was then Vance heard the sound of horses approaching. He vaulted into the wagon and put out the lantern, plunging the area around the wagon into darkness. From out in the light a voice he recognized called:
“You’re about two minutes too late with that, Vance. I could have dropped all three of you had I wanted.”
The Kid, unshaven, dirty, his black clothes smothered in mud, the shirt sleeve torn open, rode up. He was not riding his big white stallion but sat a wiry Apache pony with two more following on a lead rope. The huge white horse came after them, without a saddle and looking as if it had done some travelling. The Kid himself had the appearance of a man who’d ridden far and done plenty.
“Rusty, Doc!” Stone snapped as the talk around the fire died down, the trail crew staring at the apparition by Stone’s side. “Get over here and take care of the Kid’s horses.”
The two men in question rose, but Mark also came to his feet. Rusty and Doc were good hands with horses and could handle the three Apache broomtails, but the Kid’s huge white stallion was another proposition. The old Thunder horse would allow only the Kid to handle it with any impunity. Even to the other members of the floating outfit Thunder showed no friendship and merely tolerated them. For any man, other than the select few, to try and handle the big white was dangerous in the extreme.