Paul cantered up to Ned and Jake on point, his heart thrilling at the sight of the cattle moving along in a column half a mile long. A couple of hundred yards behind them was the wagon, fitted with a canvas top and carrying Mr. Snoddergas accompanied by an old Mexican cook hired for the drive up. A hundred yards behind the supply and cook wagon were a dozen horses, herded by one of the vaqueros who was ordered to keep his eye on the rear.
The cattle were not as bad as Ned had led him to expect, although they were smaller than those he had seen on the New Mexico range. It had been decided by Mr. Poopendal, who they discovered had been raised on a farm near the Scottish border, to purchase breeding bulls from the local area, and that perhaps Wes Laughton might have a few to sell.
Jake eyed the rifle slung across Paul’s back. “Ned’s been telling me you rode with some people who carry their rifles that way. What kind of people are they?”
“Cossacks. Russian cavalry?
Jake raised his eyebrows. “You were way the hell and begone over there?” he asked, a new respect coming into his voice.
“For about one year.”
“Doesn’t that rifle beat your back when you kick that horse along?”
“No, not really. I suppose you get used to it after a while.”
Jake motioned with his thumb to the revolver resting on Paul’s hip. “You know how to use that?”
Paul chuckled. “I can hit the side of a barn if I’m close enough, but I’m a lot better with a sabre.”
“Want a little practice?”
“Do I! I was going to ask you for some tuition once we got settled down.”
Jake turned to Ned. “Mind if I take some time with the boss?” he asked formally, following the rigid rules of the trail.
“Go right ahead,” said Ned. “There’s a couple of hours before lunch. We’ll be driving northeast all day long anyhow.”
Jake and Paul rode on a few miles in advance so their shots would not spook the herd. Dismounting, they tied their horses to a tree, then Jake adjusted Paul’s belt and holster.
“Keep them lower,” he explained. “Below the hip. The higher you have to draw, the more time you lose. Tie down the holster when you step off your horse. Make it a habit, cause you’ll never know when you may have to slap leather.” He inspected Paul’s 44 and shook his head. “It’s too much gun, too heavy, not at all accurate. Get a thirty-eight.”
“How about the cartridges? The tradesman I bought this from said they would be hard to find.”
“Just stock up a little heavier. You don’t use a handgun too often, but when you do, the first few shots usually decide the outcome. We’ll practice with your forty-four. If you learn to hit anything with that, you’ll do a lot better with a thirty-eight. Just turn slightly sideways and hold it straight out. No fancy stuff or shooting from the hip. The only thing you’ll hit that way is the ground.”
“Oh, I can fire the revolver quite well,” said Paul. “My trouble is drawing it out quickly.”
“We’ll get to that soon enough,” said Jake. He pointed to a rock twenty-five feet away. “Hit that.” Paul raised the revolver, aimed for a second and fired. A chip flew from the rock. “Keep shooting,” said Jake. Paul fired five more times, hitting the rock squarely at each shot.
When he reloaded, Jake said. “Now, let your arm hang alongside your thigh, and when say ‘Fire,’ you bring it straight up and shoot. The secret is to shoot just as the target comes in line with your eye. Are you ready?” Paul nodded. “Fire!”
The bullet missed the rock and hit the ground beyond it “You pulled the trigger too late,” said Jake. “You’ve got to time yourself to pull just a hair below the target. Try again, but don’t raise your arm too fast. You want that bullet on its way while the gun is still moving up. Are you ready? Fire!”
The bullet struck the bottom of the rock. “That’s better,” said Jake. “Try it again, and keep raising your arm slowly. We’ll go for speed later on.”
By the time the herd came into sight, Paul was able to raise the revolver from alongside his thigh at almost top speed and hit the rock four times out of five. “You’re learning fast,” said Jake as they rode to the wagon where lunch was being served. “But four out of five isn’t good enough. When you get to seven out of eight and develop a little more speed getting that arm up, we’ll be ready to go on to the next lesson.”
Three days later, when the herd reached the Rio Grande, Paul hit his target nine times out of ten shots, his revolver coming up at top speed. The next day Jake tested him in competition with Jim Nesbitt, who he said was a better shot than Emil Block. Paul won four out of the ten trials.
“Well,” said Jake, pleased with the results, “guess we can go ahead now. But don’t stop practicing -remember, you won only four out of ten, and generally it’s the man who wins one out of one who walks away. There’s a town an hour’s ride off the trail, We’ll go there tomorrow and pick out a good handgun for you.”
Paul liked all the 38 revolvers he tried, but Jake had him handle half a dozen before selecting the one that suited him best. “Every single gun is different,” he explained, “both the way it fits your hand and shoots. You’ve got to like your gun, the same as with a horse. For example, that horse you’re always riding - you take good care of it, but it’s just another horse to you. But someday you’ll have one you really like, and you won’t part with it for a fistful of gold. That’s the way your sixgun has to be.”
The 38 revolver made an enormous difference to his shooting. With one day of practice, he was able to best Jim Nesbitt six times out of ten. It was lighter in weight, more accurate, and had a third less recoil.
“Now we’ll work on the draw,” said Jake. “There’s two kinds of draw for two kinds of shooting. The first is long-range shooting, where accuracy is more important than speed. For that you stand sorta half-turned with your right leg a little bit forward and crouch down a hair. When you move, pull your gun fast, draw back the hammer as you straighten up, then shoot the way you’ve been practicing. But maybe you’ll be nose to nose with the man you have to fight. That doesn’t call for a lot of aiming, cause you’re bound to hit him if you just point your gun in his general direction, That is when speed counts more than accuracy. To get speed, you face him head on, with your left leg forward, and you stand a little straighter - not straight up, mind you, but in less of a crouch. In this position, your right hand is much freer to move. But the main part is to crouch down the instant you start drawing, “cause with your hand corning up and you going down, it lets you clear leather faster. Then pull back the hammer, raise your gun halfway up to the middle of your chest, elbow bent, and squeeze off your shot. Don’t try any hip shooting - you could miss him even if he’s in your lap. Later on, if you have a dozen years to spare, you can practice hip shooting. Before you start, take the cartridges out of your gun. Once you get used to the draw, we can combine it with shooting.”
Each day Paul practiced for hours, riding ahead a short distance to dismount and work on his draw. Jake was an uncompromising instructor in addition to observing the countryside, for they were in Indian country and a herd the size of theirs was going to attract attention no matter how quickly they moved. Ned took every precaution, keeping the cattle closed up, sending a sharp-eyed vaquero forward as point so he could stay nearer to the herd, waving Jim Nesbitt and Emil Block further out on the flanks to give as much warning as possible against a sneak attack, permitting fires only during daylight hours, and doubling the night watch.
In spite of all this, they were hit in the middle of the desert about halfway to Rio Felix. It came exactly as they expected it would, at first light, minutes before the camp would normally awaken. Half a dozen screaming demons, waving blankets, sped through the resting beasts towards the horses picketed to a rope tied between the wagon and a tree. Not a shot was fired until they reached the line, then suddenly the canvas cover of the wagon was raised and Mr. Snoddergas, his old Mexican cook and the vaquero in charge of th
e remuda, all fully awake, rose up and fired. One of the Indians fell instantly. Then the others were among the horses, cutting the picket line, shouting like banshees. Here they received the second jolt, for every horse was hobbled. It took them only seconds to realize they had been outfoxed, so with cries of rage, they rushed out of camp, but not before a second member of their group was struck by a bullet. As he sagged, a comrade leaned over and helped him to stay on his mount’s back until they were out of sight.
Ten more Indians raided the cattle, driving off about twenty head. None of the defenders fired at them. Instead, already awake, with saddled horses close at band, they mounted and rushed to the head of the herd, crooning to the startled beasts, blocking those which started to run away from the trail, guiding them in the direction they would go come daylight, trying desperately to avoid an out-and-out stampede.
“Pay no attention to the Indians who go after the beef,” Ned had warned. “They ain’t going to get very far with them. The main thing is to protect the horses and control the herd.”
By mid-morning, they had everything under control, the cattle stopped and settled in a wide draw, the wagon and remuda caught up, and most of the, strays found and brought back.
Ned was wise enough to realize he wasn’t fit for the next part of his plan. “Do you want to take over, Paul?” he asked.
Paul looked at Jake. “Have you or the others any experience fighting Indians?”
Jake scratched his budding beard. “Well, I guess all of us have run upon Indians one time or another, but we’d take kindly to you being in charge. We reckon you’re not the greatest child in arms we ever met”
Paul grinned. Selecting Jake, Jim and four of the vaqueros they took fresh horses from the remuda and returned to where they had been raided. Paul was surprised to see how far they had come, almost eight miles, but at the camp site they soon picked up the trail of the cattle. With Paul at point, they rode swiftly across the sandy countryside, the tracks of the raiders and the cattle quite easy to follow. They did not stop for lunch, but continued riding steadily as they ate the tortillas and fried meat the cook had prepared for them.
It was mid-afternoon when they climbed a knoll and caught sight of their quarry beating the weary animals in the forlorn hope of getting them across the Rio Grande before being overtaken. Paul did not hesitate. Drawing out his revolver, be sank spurs into his horse and charged across the open ground, his band of avengers hard on his heels.
The Indians were well aware of their presence from the moment they exposed themselves on the knoll, and, surprised to see only seven men in pursuit, they all dropped back to the rear of the herd and lined up to protect their stolen goods. By lining up, the Indians presented a familiar disposition to Paul.
“Close in!” he shouted to his men, and led them straight for the centre of the enemy line, knowing full well that no one was going to hit anyone else while charging at top speed, except by sheer luck. it was as he foresaw, a lot of yelling and shooting but no one injured. Then as he closed in on the Indians, he thrust his sixgun directly at the chest of the first one he came to and pulled the trigger. He was rewarded with seeing his opponent literally blown off his mount.
Jake and Jim had caught on to his tactics just moments before, and firing their revolvers at close quarters, they brought down a second warrior. The others, both the vaqueros and Indians, did no more than waste ammunition and make a noise.
The instant Paul passed through the Indian line, he whirled his horse, sank his spurs into its flanks and rode after his enemy, coming up quickly on one who looked back in sudden fear at the charging figure bearing down on him. He tried everything to avoid his doom, swinging his horse from side to side, but Paul rode him down. As he closed on the Indian, Paul placed the revolver to his neck and fired. He did not wait to see the body fall from the racing horse, but turned quickly to seek another of his enemies to fight.
There was no one to do battle. The rest of the Indians were fleeing like a plague was threatening them, leaving behind the dead ones, the cattle, and all thought of facing that yellow-haired fiend who was riding them down one by one.
Paul looked about. Besides his two victims, Jake and Jim had each killed an Indian, and the combined shooting of the vaqueros had brought down one more, making a total of five. The one shot by the vaqueros was not dead, only severely wounded. Paul rode up as Jake leveled his sixgun to finish him off.
“I wouldn’t do that, Jake,” said Paul softly.
Jake looked up in surprise, then lowered his gun. “You can’t tend him,” he said, “and if you were lying there and he was up here, you’d last only one breath.”
“We’ll give him a chance, anyhow.” He motioned to a vaquero. “Catch one of their horses. We’ll patch him up as best we can and send him off towards home.”
As Paul dismounted to aid the Indian, Jake sighed. “I’ve gotten right fond of you, Paul, but tending a man you were ready to kill a moment ago makes me think you’re headed for a short life.”
Paul grinned. “I never had any doubt, of it.”
He knelt beside the warrior and began to turn him over on his back to examine his wound. And as the Indian turned, a knife in his hand flashed.
“Watch out!” shouted Jake.
Paul never rolled faster in his life. The blade tore through his jacket and ripped the skin of one side before he got out of range. He jumped to his feet.
“Wait!” he called to Jake, who was leveling his revolver again.
Then stamping on the wounded Indian’s wrist, he reached down, wrenched the knife out of his hand, and slit his throat from ear to ear.
CHAPTER IX
They made no attempt to bypass Rijos for two good reasons; it would be Christmas Eve the following night and it had begun to snow. They had run into snow a few days before, but it was only two three inches deep and no real barrier to travel. The present snowfall could be working up to a real blizzard and they wanted the cattle bedded down in that sheltered draw Ned had selected far in advance before the fury of the storm hit them.
Everyone from the ranch came to the boundary line to greet them as they arrived, having been alerted by Walt, who had been in town on an errand. Paul was in the lead as he reached the boundary, and he stepped to read a sign posted by the side of the road.
THE THREE BARBS it read, and underneath was added in large, bold letters: TRESPASS AT YOUR OWN RISK.
He looked up at the horsemen coming from the direction of the ranch. Mr. Blatherbell, Mr. Poopendal, Walt and three strange riders thundered up, rifles held in their hands.
A proud smile crossed Paul’s lips as Mr. Blatherbell, thirty pounds lighter, muffled to his ears in a thick leather coat, sitting his horse like he knew which side to mount from and holding his rifle like he knew which end to shoot from, stood up in his stirrups and raised his weapon in salute.
“Welcome home, Your Grace. It is indeed good to see you.”
Paul urged his horse forward and held out his hand. Mr. Blatherbell almost dropped the rifle before he tucked it under his other arm, took off his glove, and shook hands.
Paul turned to Mr. Poopendal, who appeared exactly as be had left him two months before, and shook his hand, then Walt’s. The three strangers were young cowboys hired by Mr. Poopendal a few weeks before, and Paul continued to be amazed at how much alike these American westerners seemed. They were long, lean, brown-haired, snub-nosed puppies, who acted the strong, silent type, but were ready to frisk about at the drop of a hat. He introduced Jake, Jim and Emil, then brought up the vaqueros one by one and explained to all how brave and reliable they were, translating what he said into Spanish so that the small, dark men would know how he felt. Each one seemed to sit six inches taller in his saddle as he returned to his post.
Everyone pitched in to move the herd along, but it was nearly dawn by the time the cattle reached the sheltered draw which would be their home for the winter. Already there were over one hundred and twenty head of steers and cows and c
alves, collected by Mr. Poopendal’s cowboys from ravines and valleys to which they had strayed. They eyed the newcomers suspiciously, and dozens of battles took place between the cows from the two herds before they settled down.
The small house fixed up by Mr. Poopendal seemed like a palace to Paul as he fell on his bed, fully dressed, and went to sleep instantly. Li Chang had flapjacks and molasses and thick slices of ham to be served with steaming mugs of coffee to those who were not too exhausted to eat, then all went to sleep. Mr. Batherbell and Walt remained awake as guards in strict conformity with the rules laid down by Mr. Poopendal from the moment he assumed command.
The next day was wash day. Mr. Poopendal surprised everyone by producing a tub he had purchased in Rijos, and the fires burned long and high as water was heated for the trail gang. Each man was permitted twenty minutes in the tub, not to allow him to wash and then sit back in sublime contentment but because it took that long to heat enough water for the next bath. Paul found a Mexican to trim his hair, then washed, shaved and dressed in fresh clothing, he mounted a horse, slung his rifle, and started off through the still-falling snow to the Laughton home.”
Nora was waiting at the boundary of their ranch, bundled in a beautifully tanned leather coat trimmed with white wool at the throat and cuffs with a matching cap on her head.
Paul grinned. “Wes’ reporting system still working?”
She grinned back. “The best in the west.” She turned her horse in alongside his and looked up at him as they rode along. “Nice to have you back in one piece. Was it a good drive?”
“I enjoyed it immensely. I never knew there was so much to learn. We were even attacked by Indians.”
She sat straighter on her horse, and Paul could nearly hear the pounding of her heart. “Where?” she asked, trying to appear casual.
“About halfway up to the Rio Felix.”
Her face flushed with anger. “Ned should have expected it!” she snapped. “There’s always a band of Indians patrolling that area.”
The Cossack Cowboy Page 13