by J. T. Edson
Between the cowhand’s legs, the trained horse knew what was expected of it. Extending its stride, it crowded closer to the fleeing steer. The more nervous members of the crowd started to scatter before the menace of the long, spike-sharp horns and mean-looking heft of the big animal. Coming alongside it, the cowhand leaned across and grabbed its tail. A touch of his heels caused the horse to step aside and add its weight to the pull he gave at the tail. Thrown off balance, the steer went crashing to the ground. It bounced on landing, sliding to a halt before it reached the places so rapidly vacated by the front members of the crowd.
‘Damn it!’ the veterinarian bawled, starting towards the cowhand who slid his horse to a halt facing the steer. ‘Don’t break the beast’s neck!’
Annoyance flushed the young Texan’s face. After performing a mighty neat ‘tailing down’, he could see several of the female audience eyeing him in frank admiration and did not care to have the feeling spoiled by any damned shiny-butt, desk-warming Yankee.
‘Go to hell!’ the cowhand yelled back over his shoulder. ‘What should I’ve done, let it run all over some of these good folks here?’
‘Get it shoved back with the others, Austin!’ Goodnight barked, knowing the youngster to be high-spirited and hot-tempered. ‘The sooner we’re through, the quicker you boys get your pay.’
‘Is that steer all right, Major?’ Hunter went on, indicating a perfectly healthy animal being drawn up for inspection.
The words caused the tension to stop for the time being. Although the major’s neck showed red above his collar, he swung back to his work. Snorting and grunting, the winded red steer lurched to its feet and stood shaking its head in a dazed manner. However, one good tailing had taught it a lesson and it lumbered quietly enough back to the herd.
Other steers continued to be passed between the examination teams. Cowhands changed their horses, grabbed a cup of coffee prepared by Rowdy Lincoln and his louse, the tall, gangling, excitable Turkey Trott. The latter also delivered coffee to the buying commission, allowing the work to continue unchecked. However, the veterinarian was still smarting under the sting of Austin’s retort and apparent rebuke by Hunter. So he gave the cattle a closer scrutiny, which slowed down the proceedings. Wanting to check a grulla vi steer brought up by a sweating, tired Spat, the veterinarian acted rashly. Instead of warning the cowhand, he walked towards the grulla. It let out a low, warning snort that a more experienced man would have recognized, dropped its head and lunged forward. Wise to the ways of ropes, the steer had not fought against the pull. So the rope hung sufficiently slack for it to have the means of reaching the rash soldier. Even as the major threw himself to the rear, Spat made his horse jump sideways. Snapping tight, the rope jerked the steer to a halt. For all that, its wicked horns only missed the major by a couple of inches as its head hooked up in a belly-ripping slash.
Unable to stop himself, the major sat down hard. Hearing the laughter of the crowd increased his feeling of humiliation. Thrusting himself to his feet, he looked for someone on whom to vent his anger. The closest person, and most logical, was the lanky Spat. Having been thwarted in its desire, the steer calmed down and made no further attempt to fight the rope. So Spat lounged in his saddle, waiting for instructions.
‘Why in hell don’t you watch what you’re doing, you damned beef-head?’ yelped the veterinarian.
Normally Spat had an amiable nature, but he was feeling the strain of the long drive and the emotional stress of having left Loving and Sid to face the Indians. Nobody blamed him for the latter, there had been no other decision but for him to try and fetch help. However, Spat still felt that he might have been more use staying at the cave; even though he knew at the bottom of his heart that he had acted for the best. It all combined to make Spat most unappreciative of the soldier’s comments.
‘Watch what you’re doing yourself, blue-belly!’ he growled back, answering the major’s derogatory name for a Texan with one equally opprobrious to the U.S. Army. ‘A kid in its cradle back to home’d know better than walk up to a longhorn.’
‘Don’t speak to a m—!’ the major bellowed, thrusting himself erect.
‘Get on with it, Major!’ Hunter barked. ‘Nobody got hurt.’
Watching the officer stalk angrily back to his original position, the two dudes exchanged knowing nods.
‘With hotheads like those two cowboys, we ought to get something stirred up easy enough,’ commented the smaller man.
‘That major’ll be worth cultivating too,’ the other replied. ‘He’ll be on the board which awards the contract. What happens if Goodnight should get it, Joe?’
‘We’ll just have to make sure that he doesn’t fulfill it,’ the smaller man stated. ‘It’s as easy as that.’
At last, with the sun going down, the last of the steers had passed before the buying commission and been accepted. Coming across, the veterinarian faced Goodnight and Hunter stiffly but did not allow personal feelings to interfere with his duty.
‘They’re all healthy and in good condition, Colonel.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Goodnight answered.
Without making any reply, the veterinarian saluted Hunter, made a smart about-face and walked away.
‘He’ll calm down soon enough,’ Hunter told Goodnight, then looked at John Poe and the second major as they approached.
‘I make the tally one thousand five hundred and fourteen,’ the major announced, holding the two books in which his assistants had kept their count.
‘And me,’ agreed Poe, still holding the length of pigging thong which had served him instead of pencil and paper. ‘Fifteen hundred and fourteen, just like on our last trail count, vii boss.’
‘All branded with the Swinging G,’ the major went on.
‘You was expecting maybe something else, soldier?’ Poe inquired sardonically, having been aware how the major had studied the “G” brand burned on the left flank of each steer.
‘I’ve my duty to do,’ the major replied stiffly.
‘Have a cigar, Mr. Poe,’ Hunter put in hastily, producing a handful from his tunic pocket. ‘Take some for the rest of your men.’
‘Gracias, Colonel,’ Poe answered and grinned at the major. ‘I know you don’t want to buy stolen stock, friend. But was I you, I’d put that report a mite different next time you make it. Some folks’d be touchy about how it sounded.’
‘It wasn’t a good choice of words, I’ll admit,’ the major said and grinned back as Poe offered him one of the cigars, accepting it in terms of an olive branch. ‘You’ve done well to get that many here and in such good shape.’
Although Poe knew Goodnight’s thoughts on the subject, he did not comment on them. However, he felt that the major would be considerably surprised when the rancher declared his views at the contract meeting the following day.
‘If you show us where you want ’em, we’ll bed the herd down,’ Goodnight told Hunter, seeing harmony restored. ‘How about handling them?’
‘I’ve two dozen troopers who’ve been cowhands for that,’ Hunter assured him. ‘You and your men can take a well-earned rest.’
‘Yahoo!’ Austin whooped, having been close enough to hear the words. ‘It’s not resting I’m fixing to do.’
‘You spook that herd and I know what you’ll be doing!’ Poe growled.
‘They’ll not spook easy if you put them on good grazing and water,’ Goodnight remarked to Hunter.
‘Good. If you’ll accompany me to the Fort, I’ll attend to your payment.’
‘I’ll need some of it to pay off my crew,’ Goodnight admitted. ‘And John, I know the boys figure to drink the town dry. But make sure they remember that the War’s over and I don’t want it starting again.’
Chapter Four
Who Did You Fight For In The War?
When the soldiers took charge of the bedded-down cattle, the trail crew headed for town at a gallop. Thundering along the main—and only—street, they brought their horses to a halt outside
the Yellow Stripe saloon. Inside its doors, Goodnight was waiting with money to pay off his crew. The customers and staff of the saloon stared at the stacks of gold coins and paper notes in front of the bearded rancher and tried to estimate how much they amounted to.
‘What’s this stuff, anyways?’ Austin whooped, accepting his pay. ‘Is it what my pappy calls cash money and used to talk about afore mammy stopped him?’
‘It for sure is,’ Spat agreed, jingling coins in his hands. ‘Least, I reckon it is. That gent behind the bar there’ll likely tell us for sure.’
Knowing what was expected of him, Goodnight led the way to the bar on completing the payout. Handing money across the counter, he called for drinks on the house. That brought a rush of customers as townsmen and soldiers gathered to accept the rancher’s bounty. Among them were the Artillery sergeant major and the cavalry sergeant who had stayed behind as escort for the herd during the latter stages of the journey and some of their men who had enjoyed Texas hospitality on the trail.
‘Man, I needed that!’ young Austin whooped, up-ending four-fingers of whiskey and smacking his lips appreciatively. ‘Same again, barkeep, and for the senorita here.’
Having expected a roaring night’s trade, the owner of the saloon had brought in a number of pretty Mexican girls from the local cat-houses. One of them stood at Austin’s elbow, giggling her delight as he hugged her, and the bartender placed a drink before her.
‘Not for me right now,’ Goodnight replied when the youngster offered him a drink. ‘I’m going to see Oliver.’
‘Sure hope he’s all right,’ Austin said seriously. ‘Of all the stinking—’
‘He wouldn’t want you boys thinking sorrowful about him,’ Goodnight pointed out. ‘Have some fun tonight, you’ve earned it, all of you.’ With that he turned to where Poe stood talking to the two non-coms. ‘John, see the boys have fun, but hold it down if they get too rowdy.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ the segundo promised.
Leaving the saloon, Goodnight took his horse and rode out to the Fort. There he visited the hospital and learned that Loving’s condition remained the same. The surgeon in charge was gloomy about the cattleman’s chances and, seeing his partner’s unconscious face, pale and wracked with pain, Goodnight felt deeply concerned. However, the rancher wanted to return to his men. Being aware of how easily the flames of Civil War hatred could rise, he wished to prevent any trouble starting between his men and the locals on that score. He could trust his foreman, but knew his own presence would be a big inducement to holding tempers in check.
Approaching the saloon, Goodnight heard singing. Maybe it was not the best music he had ever heard, but it rang out with gusto and gave every evidence of its makers’ high spirits. For all that, the rancher felt a touch worried as he made out the words.
Lo, the beacon fires are lighted!
Let all true hearts now stand united!
To arms! To arms! To arms in Dixie!
Swinging from his horse, the rancher tossed its reins over the hitching rail and strode swiftly towards the saloon’s bat-wing doors. With the second verse of General Samuel Pike, C.S.A.’s highly patriotic lyrics to Emmett’s Dixie blaring out in full-throated chorus, he figured that he had better intervene and divert the singers to a less explosive choice of music. Even as he reached out a hand to open the door, the thing he feared happened.
Lurching from a table at the side of the barroom, a big, burly, unshaven man came to a halt in the center of the floor.
He wore dirty range clothing, a filthy Burnside campaign hat and a U.S. Cavalry weapon belt with a revolver in its high-riding twist-hand draw holster. However, his scruffy appearance argued against his belonging to the Army.
‘Stop that damned row!’ the man bawled. ‘I’m not having any lousy rebel song sung here.’
Instantly the atmosphere of genial enjoyment faded and the singing died away. A low mumble of talk rose among the locals, while the soldiers present eyed the cowhands in a speculative manner. Bringing their song to a halt, the Texans studied the burly objector. Austin took his arm from around the waist of a pretty Mexican girl and moved forward until he stood clear of his companions, lifting his right hand until it hovered over the butt of his Colt.
‘You’re not, huh?’ the youngster purred.
‘The hell I am!’ spat the burly man, a typical range-town loafer, or Goodnight had never seen the breed. ‘We licked you rebs once and—’
Knowing that something must be done, and done fast, Goodnight prepared to enter. However, he saw the Artillery sergeant major step from Poe’s side and ask, ‘Who’d you fight for in the War, feller?’
‘Huh?’ grunted the big man, clearly not having expected the question. His sullen face turned towards the non-com. ‘Why I fought for the Union, same’s all these other gents.’
Across the room, the group of men indicated by the Union-supporter muttered their agreement. They were of the same general social-class as Herb Crutch and their sole claim to the title ‘gents’ came from being his cronies. Cautious by nature, they waited to see the run of general public opinion before taking a definite stand on the issue. It seemed that the soldiers present did not give their unquestioned support to Crutch.
‘I mean what outfit did you lick the rebs with?’ the sergeant major clarified, ignoring everybody but Crutch.
The burly man seemed disinclined to answer. However, the information was not long in coming. Having taken in more money so far that evening than in any previous full-night’s business, the bartender had no desire to kill off the golden goose. Nor had he any great liking for Crutch, whose custom rarely extended beyond buying a beer, in return for which he delved deeply in the free-lunch counter. So the bartender, a brawny man capable of ignoring Crutch’s opinions, provided details of the other’s war service.
‘He never served in no outfit, Sarge. Fact being, he spent the whole War out here hoss-catching for the Army.’
Which was just about what the sergeant major figured. He had noticed before how men of Crutch’s kind became vocal about dealing with the enemy but generally avoided taking any risks while doing it.
‘Then bill out, stop-at-home!’ growled the sergeant major.
‘Yeah,’ agreed the cavalry sergeant, ranging himself alongside the other non-com. ‘I’m gut-full of fellers who sat on their butts at home, picking their noses all through the shooting, trying to keep the War going.’
‘And me,’ the sergeant major continued. ‘Only the stupid sons-of-a-bitch who want the War to go on didn’t fight in it. And I never saw you hanging back when one of these Texas gents called up drinks for the house.’
‘Nor m—!’ Austin began.
A big hand clamped hold of his arm, crushing it and he swung his head to look into the coldly-warning face of Rowdy Lincoln.
‘Leave be,’ ordered the cook. ‘Those gents’re doing it right. Colonel Charlie says he wants things peaceable and peaceable they’re going to stay.’
For all the faults of youth, Austin was smart enough to know when to listen. Not only did Rowdy have muscles to back his demands, but his position as cook gave him the means of wreaking a suitable revenge on anybody who crossed him. So Austin returned to the waiting girl.
Scowling around, Crutch saw no support to his stand for the glory of the Union. Even his especial cronies showed reluctance to back his play. Taking their cue from the two non-coms, the soldiers refused to be sucked into attempts at restarting the Civil War. For the most part, the town-dwellers present did not care for the hulking, idle Crutch and saw no reason to antagonize a potential source of revenue on his behalf. Finding himself deserted by all, Crutch knew better than try to take the matter further. With a snarled-out, inaudible blanket curse, he turned and slouched towards the main doors. Seeing Goodnight just entering the saloon, Crutch’s surly temper led him into recklessness.
‘Get the hell out of my way, beef-head!’ Crutch snarled.
Which, as any of the Swinging G trail crew co
uld have warned him, was no way to address Colonel Charlie Goodnight. Maybe the rancher desired a peaceable evening; but there were limits to how far he would go to achieve his desire. Certainly backing down to Crutch would not do it. Let a man of that kind get away with such behavior and he would try further abuses. So Goodnight continued to walk forward.
‘I’m going across to the bar, hombre,’ the rancher said calmly and without bluster, meeting the other’s threatening gaze, ‘and I’m too tired to walk round you.’
There Crutch had it. His challenge had been taken up and countered. Sensing that every eye in the saloon was on him, he knew he must try to make some play. It was that or get out of Fort Sumner as a braggart who failed to back up his words.
Something about Goodnight’s stocky, powerful frame warned Crutch against attempting a physical assault. Which left only one other course open. Letting out a menacing snarl, the loafer reached towards his holster—and learned a basic, but deadly dangerous fault in its construction. To take out his revolver, he had first to open the holster’s flap. The same did not apply to Goodnight. Dropping his right hand, the stocky rancher gripped and raised the waiting Colt from leather. In doing so, he cocked back its hammer and lined the eight-inch-long barrel on Crutch’s ample mid-section.
Shock licked into the burly man as he found himself looking at the .44 bore of Goodnight’s Army Colt. He realized that, despite making the first move, he was far, far too slow. Nor would anybody present blame the rancher if he let the hammer fall.
Goodnight was no trigger-wild killer with a yen to see victims kicking at his feet; for which Crutch might have thought himself fortunate. Instead of shooting, he waited until the frightened man’s hand dropped away from the holster flap, lowered his Colt’s hammer to the safety notch between two of the cylinder’s chambers and returned the weapon to leather.