by J. T. Edson
The men fanned out, they used every bit of cover they could find, flitting from bush to bush like shadows, avoiding treading on any branch which might snap underfoot and give warning. Vance showed the others their faith in him was fully justified and he thanked his stars that he’d always loved the outdoors and hunting. As a boy he’d poached rabbits and pheasant on neighboring estates, done it in a day when a keeper would not think twice before firing on a poacher with a shotgun. Right now the training was standing him in good stead. It was a dangerous game he was playing and there was much at stake.
The breeze, light, shifting constantly in direction as it surged through the trees, came to Vance and his nostrils caught an aroma. It was there for a moment, then gone again, but he could have sworn he smelled the rich and appetizing fumes of cooking turkey.
The Kid was ahead of the others, moving with the silence of a black dressed ghost. Then he halted, seeming to freeze in mid-stride. He looked back to the others, held up his hand, then moved his arms, spreading them out in a signal. The other three men advanced, fanning out. Vance was on the outside of the group, with Dusty next to him. The rancher reached a bush, peered over it and stiffened.
They were just ahead, four dark, squat, half naked young braves around a small fire. Even as Vance watched he saw one of the braves carve a slab of meat from the breast of a cooked turkey which was impaled on a stick placed in the ground. There was a small hole dug in the ground in the very embers of the fire. Vance noticed this, even more than he noticed that all the young braves had knives at their belts and their weapons were stacked nearby.
Slowly the Kid raised his rifle and the others also started to lift their weapons ready to shoot. There was no time to think of the rights or wrongs of shooting down the braves without a chance. These were Apaches, tough young braves who were on the warpath. At such a time no Apache would think twice of shooting down a white man from ambush and without warning.
There was a slight movement which caught the corner of Vance’s eye, a splash of color where no such color should be. His senses were alert and he started to turn, dropping into a crouch as he did so. That movement saved his life. There was a hiss and he felt a burning knife-like agony well through him as the feathered shaft of an Apache war arrow drove into his shoulder. He saw the young Apache standing in the bushes, his own rifle fell from his hands. With pain welling through him Vance stood dazed, unable to force himself to make a move as the Apache fetched a second arrow from his quiver, set it and started to draw the bow string. Time seemed to be standing still for Vance and later he would never remember the incident in terms of seconds, which was how it happened.
Dusty heard the slight sound and turned, his short Winchester carbine coming up and spitting even as the brave was pulling back his bowstring. Dusty moved and shot fast, Vance later was to swear he felt the wind of the bullet on his face. The Apache spun around, his arrow jerked from the string and clattered to the ground, then he followed it.
There was no time to waste on the shot Apache, or even on caring for Vance’s wound. Not right now, for the four braves by the fire were on their feet, startled and not sure where the attack was coming from. The confusion was only momentary, the turkey went into the fire, knocked over by a brave who leapt for his rifle. Three of the Apaches were moving, hurling for their weapons, the fourth turned to run.
Mark Counter’s rifle crashed and one of the braves reeled, went to his knees then crashed down. The Kid’s old yellow boy spat out, hunching over and dropping a second warrior even as his reflexes started to propel him towards his weapons. The third young brave was fast, he dived forward with hands reaching down and missed a fast thrown bullet from Dusty’s carbine by inches. Lighting down rolling, the brave brought off a fast taken shot which ripped a hole through the brim of Mark’s costly white Stetson hat. The penalty for missing came fast, thrown through the .44 barrel of the Kid’s old rifle, slammed home on the end of a flat nosed Tyler Henry bullet.
The last brave was older, more battle wise. He also knew his orders in case of a surprise attack by the scouts of the ride-plenties, the cowhands. Not for him to stand and fight. Leave that to the young braves, the name-making braves with no coups to show for victory or tales to sing around the camp fire. The old warrior had done both things and needed no boosting to his name and fame so he could leave the young men to fight and die while he headed upstream as fast as his war relay could run, make his best time to warn the main band that the herd of white man’s spotted buffalo would come through the woods and cross the Carne River here.
On his knees, wincing with pain, Vance tried to withdraw the arrow. He’d seen the sudden, wild and explosive burst of action and saw the brave running for the trees even as the others went down before Texas rifles.
“Quit that fooling, Vance,” Dusty warned as he saw what was happening. “Set back and watch the Kid.”
Vance released the arrow and Dusty helped him to his feet, allowing him to see what was going on and take his mind from the agony he was in. Vance, even though his shoulder throbbed and hurt, could not help but admire the cool way the Kid handled his rifle.
The Apache was gone, diving into the bushes like a greased weasel. He appeared for a brief instant and Mark’s rifle kicked bark from the tree behind, while he went from sight once more. The Kid did not fire. He held his old rifle to his shoulder, left eye closed, right sighting carefully along the scuffed old barrel. The Kid knew that rifle, knew every vagary of it and he knew that he would have just one good chance to down the Apache.
There was a red flicker between two trees, the flicker made by the trade shirt of the Apache as he darted between two bushes on his racing way to where the horses were staked out. Vance saw it, then saw the Kid alter his aim slightly. Once more that red flash showed and the Kid’s rifle barked. The red shirt jerked, staggered, crashed down. There was a thrashing in the bushes and then all was still once more.
Bounding forward with the speed and grace of a buck Apache, the Kid went into the clearing. He hurled the bodies of the three young braves, seeing in passing there was no danger from them. He also found time to cast a disappointed glance at the charred remains of the turkey on the fire. There was nothing the Kid liked more than Indian-baked turkey. Right now he had other things to worry about. He knew he’d sunk lead into the fleeing Apache but must make sure the brave was dead. He’d seen a badly wounded Apache cover ten miles once, to get where he wanted to go. If the brave was not dead he might even now get away and succeed in his duty of warning the main bunch.
Moving fast the Kid came to where the Apache lay. There was a hole in the side of his shirt, it was small, at the other side the exit hole of the bullet was large and ragged. There was no danger, the twenty-eight grain load used in the old Winchester ’66 rifle might not have long range hitting power, but up to fifty yards would stop a man, especially when it smashed through the chest and burst the heart in passing.
The Kid did not stop by the Apache, he went on, ears straining to catch any sound which might warn him that there had been one or more braves with the horses and that they were now running. No such sound greeted him and he came on the Apache ponies hobbled and grazing in a small valley. The Kid made a quick circle of the valley, then after making sure no Apache had left, he turned to head back to the camp. There were five war relays and three horses each down in the valley, they would make a useful addition to Vance Brownlow’s remuda.
“We’d best look to that arrow, Vance,” Dusty remarked as soon as the Kid went from sight.
Vance was still gripping the arrow shaft, trying to pull at it, although he felt as if the strength was drained from him. He was on his knees and the sweat rolled freely down his face. Mark came forward, rested his rifle against the trunk of a tree and grunted:
“You stop that, Vance,” he said, then to Dusty. “The danged fool’s trying to pull himself inside out.”
“You always did reckon a man who settled in Arizona didn’t have good sense,” Dusty ans
wered. “Best tend to him or we’ll have Birdie after us for not taking good care of him.”
Taking a knife from his pocket Mark stepped forward and cut the rancher’s shirt away from the wound. He worked fast and Vance stayed on his knees, making no sound of protest. The arrow’s tip just showed from under his collar-bone and Mark only needed the one look to tell him all he needed to know.
“That’s a barbed war arrow, Vance,” he warned. “It won’t come out the way it went in so—” Mark spoke gently, put his left hand against Vance’s shoulder to hold it firm, gripped the arrow shaft with his right and forced it forward so the barbed head was clear.
Vance’s body gave a convulsive heave but that was the only sign of pain he gave, except that the sweat was pouring down his face. Through his clenched lips he managed to grit out:
“Don’t worry none about it. It’s only me.”
“Which same’s why Fm not worrying,” Mark answered cheerfully, cutting the barbed head off. “It’s all over and done with now, isn’t it Dusty?”
Then before Vance realized what was going to happen it was all over and done with. Mark gripped the wounded shoulder again, took hold of the headless arrow by the flighted end, gave a quick pull and it slid back through the hole and out. This time Vance did give a yell, the world appeared to be roaring around him. He clutched weakly at Mark’s leg as blood began to flow.
“Whiskey—flask in my pants pocket—” he gasped.
Mark nodded, he felt for and extracted the small hipflask from Vance’s pocket then removed the cork and poured the raw liquor into the hole. Vance’s entire body writhed and jerked in agony as the whiskey bit into the wound. He groaned but did not cry out, although his eyes were suddenly filled with water. By the time he’d recovered and cleared his eyes Vance found Mark was ripping his shirt to make a bandage. The Kid was back from his scout, grinning broadly as he examined the arrow-head.
“Wonder if this here arrow’s all poisoned?” he asked, knowing full well the Apache never poisoned his arrow-heads. “Had me an uncle one time, back home to Texas. He took him a poisoned arrow in his shoulder, swelled up like a fattening shoat. My drinking uncle, Si, mistook him for a shoat and butchered him for dinner. There wasn’t half a to-do when they found out the mistake. See, Uncle Ezra, him that got butchered, he’d stashed away a whole jug of corn likker and none of the others knew where it was.”
“You damned black heller,” growled Vance, with a blanket curse which took in the whole Ysabel family. “Can’t you think of anything more cheerful to talk about than that?”
The Kid grinned and went to the fire, examining the large patch of embers. He scuffed some of the back with his boot, drew his knife and started to dig until he brought forth a large ball of what appeared to be mud. Carefully juggling the hot ball the Kid got it clear of the fire and broke it with the back of the bowie knife blade. The mud cracked and came away to expose the plump shape of a wild turkey as big as the one which was still spluttering and burning on the fire. The dried mud stripped off all the feathers as it came away and the bird lay ready for carving and eating.
“I sure could talk about something more cheerful,” he told the watching Vance. “But you being all shot to death like that, you just wouldn’t be interested.”
“I’m not that badly hurt,” Vance replied. “Besides, turkey’s good for a sick man. I had an Uncle Thadeus, he always insisted on eating turkey when he was ill.”
The Kid grinned, his razor-edged knife went around and carved a generous slab of breast meat from the bird, then he pulled a twig from the fire, impaled the meat on it and passed it to Vance.
“This’s what I call a well cooked bird,” the Kid remarked.
“And more than enough for us—”
“Yowee! Food!” whooped a voice from the trees and Johnny Raybold appeared, leading the horses.
“You spoke a whole heap too soon, amigo” growled Mark disgustedly. “Reckon we could insult him so he’d go away?”
“With food here?” Dusty replied. “That’s about as likely as finding an honest Ysabel, now isn’t it?”
Johnny saw the bandaging attempts and opened his saddle pouch to take out some strips of white cloth. He cast a critical eye around him and remarked: “That was a tolerable amount of shooting for just three dead Apaches.”
“There’s two more in the bushes,” Dusty replied. “We got them all. Settle on down and have some turkey.”
“I wouldn’t say no,” Johnny drawled.
“You’ve never even tried,” growled the Kid.
Dusty waited until Vance’s wound was attended to then gave his orders. “Eat up, then I’m riding back to the herd. You come with me, Vance, I want Doc to take a look at that shoulder.”
“I just helped with it,” Johnny pointed out.
“Sure,” agreed Dusty. “That’s what I mean.”
Stone saw the two men riding towards him, saw Dusty’s hat make a wild wave to him and knew everything was all right, except that Vance had his arm in a sling. Sending his horse forward, Stone rode to meet the other two, he glanced at Vance and asked, “Everything all right?”
“Got them all and Vance’s our only casualty.”
“Head back along the line, Vance,” Stone ordered. “Tell Doc to look you over. How about it, Dusty?”
Dusty cast a glance back at the herd and nodded. “They look thirsty enough.”
“They’re ready for it.”
Dusty and Stone had experienced the way of a herd of cattle when it was thirsty and got a scent of water. With luck the cattle would run right through the trees and could be picked up at the edge of the water. There would be some time lost but it would be worth the extra trouble.
“I left Mark, Lon and Johnny to watch out. They’ve got orders to down any Apache who shows any sign of coming their way, looking for the other scouts.”
Time passed and the herd moved on. It had been allowed to graze but now the riders closed in on the flanks, pushing the animals closer together and the pace increased. The previous days had been at a steady drive and without trouble, now the extra pace did not unduly worry them.
Birdie had seen Vance with his arm in the sling but neither fainted nor went into hysterics. She realized that the wound was not over serious or he would hardly have come riding back in such a manner. She left her place on the herd for a few moments just to make sure, then went back to handle her part and follow the lead of Doc Leroy who was called back to check the wound. From then until Doc’s return Birdie covered his and her own section of the line. Doc came back after a time, he rode alongside Birdie as she cursed at a steer.
“He’ll live,” he said cheerfully and raced his horse up the line.
The woods were in sight and the wind was blowing towards the cattle from it. The big lead steer threw back his head, snuffled the air, then lumbered on again for a time. Once more he sniffed as the wind bore the scent of water to him.
“Watch ’em now!” Stone roared. “They’ve scented the water.”
The change in the cattle was instant, heads flung back, snorts rang out and they started to move faster. Stone watched them, not wanting a stampede and not wanting them to run off too much fat in a wild race.
It was now the skill of the cowhands showed itself. They rode like centaurs, keeping the pace of the herd under control. Dusty appeared to be everywhere and wherever Dusty was not Stone Hart was. Riding with the wildest, sending her cow-trained horse into the herd, around it, chasing on the cattle, rode Birdie. This was the chance for her husband’s dream to come true and she meant to see that it did.
Now the herd was headed for the woods and Mark Counter boiled up out of the dust to help the others. Johnny and the Kid did not appear, they were well to the north, ready, willing and both very able to handle any chance Apache who came within range of their rifles.
In the woods it was a wild tangle, the riders all took time out to get fresh mounts from the remuda and then charged back. There was no time for refinement
or gentle handling, the steers were on the scent of water and headed for it. Not one of the herd had any other thought but to sink his nose into the cool water he could smell ahead. There was no thought of scattering and escape to freedom in the trees, not while thirst ruled.
Full into the water went the leading cattle, pushed on by the steers behind. A big roan longhorn went down, thrashing in the water and risking life and limb. Dusty was after it, his rope flashed out and the huge paint churned wildly as it hauled the steer clear by brute strength alone.
“Just like a herd of women,” Stone growled disgustedly, speaking to, without looking back at, the rider behind him.
Something hard thudded into his ribs and he turned to find himself looking into Birdie’s laughing eyes. For a moment he flushed red, then he grinned also. The present conditions gave a man no chance at all of feeling embarrassed and he had come to know Birdie quite well on this cattle drive.
“Move them across!” he roared and Birdie was the first to send her horse into the water.
The cattle, those which had drunk their fill already, were eased across the river with little or no trouble. On the other bank the woods were neither so thick nor tempting to the cattle and the herd moved on through them, encouraged by cursing riders. Stone held half the men back to make a search of the woods and the odd strays were picked up, sent over to join the long and winding column of cattle on their way to Tombstone.
The remuda was watered and moved over by Rin and the night hawk, then the two wagons brought across. By this time the day was well advanced and Chow decided to set up his night camp on the river bank. The herd was pushed on for a couple of miles and then salted and allowed to bed down for the night. There was no trouble in getting the cattle to settle down for they were leg weary and the grazing on the bed ground was good. Stone kept his usual double night herd out, for they were not out of danger yet.