From Hide and Horn (A Floating Outfit Book Number 5)

by J. T. Edson

  Yet the drive continued. Following the cattle came the remuda, available for when a hand wanted a fresh horse from his work-mount. viii Bringing up the rear were the chuck- and bed-wagons, driven by Rowdy Lincoln and his tall, lanky, freckle-faced and excitable louse, Turkey Trott. Towards evening they would speed up their teams, pass along the side of the drive, find a suitable camping-ground and prepare a hot meal—the first since breakfast—for the crew.

  Throughout the day Dusty and Goodnight seemed to be everywhere. Sometimes at the point, then among the swing or flank men, or back with the drag, either the rancher or the segundo would materialize wherever he was needed most.

  Two hours after moving the herd off its bed-ground, Dusty heard a sound that called for investigation. Two steers faced each other in menacing attitudes among the bushes to the flank of the herd. Pawing up dirt, throwing back their heads and cutting loose with as masculine bawls as their castrated condition allowed, they prepared for hostilities. It was a situation which demanded an instant attention on the part of the nearest trail hand. Like some human beings, longhorns could not resist the temptation to watch a good fight. So other steers would attempt to quit the herd as spectators.

  Yet stopping the contestants would not be without risks, as Burle Willock well knew. When one of the fighting steers decided to quit, it would not linger. Twirling around, it would leave like a bat out of hell, giving all its attention to its rival and oblivious of anything ahead. Only by such tactics could the loser hope to protect its vulnerable, unprotected rear from a severe goring by the victor. Not even a cutting-horse—most agile of the equine breed—could equal the turn-and-go prowess of a longhorn under those conditions. Nor did the flight necessarily follow a fight. Should one of the steers be bluffed out by the other’s aggressive mien, it would take just as drastic evasion measures.

  So Willock hesitated before going in too close to the animals. Not so Dusty Fog. Charging up, he made straight for the steers. Dusty sat a buckskin gelding, noted through the Rio Hondo country for its cattle-savvy, and it knew just what to do. Ignoring the chance of a fear-inspired charge, the horse rushed forward, slammed a shoulder into the nearest steer and knocked it staggering. Seeing its rival at a disadvantage, the second steer attacked. Letting out a squeal, the buckskin’s victim fled for the safety of the herd.

  ‘Stop it!’ Dusty roared, guiding his horse after the triumphant assailant.

  While Willock chased and turned the fleeing steer, preventing it from rushing among the other cattle, Dusty caught up with the victor. Knowing only rough treatment would calm the beast, Dusty rode alongside its rump. By catching and jerking at the steer’s tail, he caused it to lose its balance and crash to the ground. On rising, as was mostly the case after a good ‘tailing down’, the steer forgot all its anti-social notions and went quietly into the moving line.

  Shortly before noon, Vern Sutherland pushed his tobiano down a draw after three steers which had escaped. In a foolhardy attempt to show how good a horse he rode, he had not changed mounts since starting out. While the tobiano overtook the steers and swung them back in the direction of the herd, it was tired.

  Hearing a low snort to his left, Vera turned his head and saw a big black ladino coming towards him. Everything about the animal showed its mean nature and it clearly aimed to fight its way to freedom. The tobiano faced the steer, but Vern knew it was too leg-weary to deal with such a dangerous proposition. For all that, the youngster sat his ground. While he carried a holstered Colt and knew how to use it, he made no attempt to do so. The sound of a shot might easily cause the herd to stampede.

  On his way to the drag, Goodnight saw the youngster’s predicament and raced his bayo-cebrunos ix gelding to the rescue. Unshipping the rope, with one end ready-tied to the saddlehorn, he shook out its loop and gauged the distance with his eye. The rancher approached from the side of the steer as it began its charge. Rising to stand in his stirrups, as a means of making a more accurate throw, Goodnight sent the rope curling through the air. As the loop fell and tightened about the steer’s neck, the rancher cued the bayo-cebrunos with his knees and brought it to a turning halt. Manila twanged taut between longhorn and saddlehorn. Fixing to keep anything he roped, the Texan always tied his lariat securely to the horn and relied upon his saddle’s double girths to hold all firm. Braced ready for the impact, the bayo-cebrunos kept its feet. Not so the steer. Stopped unexpectedly with its feet off the ground, its legs shot sideways and it slammed down hard on its flank.

  ‘Get them others back to the herd!’ Goodnight called to Vern. ‘Then go pick a fresh hoss from the remuda.’

  ‘Yo!’ the youngster answered and turned to obey.

  There were other incidents calling for Dusty’s or Goodnight’s attention. In the late afternoon, they combined to help Dawn deal with a group of extra-determined ladinos which broke away. Only the girl’s deft riding-ability held the bunch together long enough for the men to reach her. She felt no shame at needing the assistance. Not even the most experienced top hand cowboy could have handled the steers alone.

  ‘Good work, Dawn,’ the rancher said.

  ‘Real good,’ Dusty echoed, and grinned at the girl’s dirt-smudged features. ‘And as a reward, you can take first spell on the night herd.’

  ‘How can you stand being so good to me?’ Dawn yelled at the small Texan’s departing back. Then she gave a resigned sigh. ‘It could be worse. I might have been on the middle watch.’

  Chapter Four – We’ll Never Beat Him to Sumner

  Knowing the importance of getting longhorns off their home ranges as a means of quietening them down, Goodnight had insisted that the herd be pushed hard all day. When he called a halt towards sundown, they were some fifteen miles from their starting point. After leaving the Swinging G’s holding area, none of the trail hands had dismounted for longer than it took to transfer a saddle to a fresh horse, or relieve the needs of nature. At mid-day, Rowdy had taken the chuck wagon forward and handed out cold food to the crew as they rode by, so that they could eat but still stay on the move.

  Even with the herd watered and brought to a stop in the open area selected by Goodnight for the night’s bed-ground, only Mark, Dawn and two of the hands rode back to where the cook had set up camp. Until the four—first part of the night guard—had eaten a meal, set out their bedrolls and returned, the remainder of the hands continued to circle the herd and quieten any restless urges the hard-driven steers still felt. Later, when the cattle were broken to the trail, there would normally only be two riders at a time on night guard. Until then, and in periods of necessity later, the number would be doubled.

  When the quartet arrived to take over, the rest of the crew trooped gratefully to the camp. Dusty went with them, but Goodnight stayed by the herd to make sure the guard knew their duties. First caring for their mounts, the trail hands took and picketed their night horses ready for instant use if the need arose. With that done, they made their way to the big main fire. There Rowdy or Turkey supplied each man with a plate generously loaded with thick, savory stew and cups of coffee in which a spoon would almost stand erect.

  Little was said until the plates had been cleaned and hunger satisfied. Then the hum of conversation arose.

  ‘How do you like being on the trail, Vern boy?’ demanded Willock in a condescending manner, winking at his crony, Jacko.

  ‘It’s great!’ the youngster answered enthusiastically, although he did not particularly care for the swaggering Double Two cowhand. Then, realizing that he sounded too eager for a man of the world, he tried to adopt a more nonchalant tone. ‘It’s about what I figured it’d be.’

  ‘Is, huh?’ Willock sneered, flashing a superior grin around the circle of watching and listening men. ‘It gets sorta rough though. Unless you’ve got the boss on hand to save you from them mean old steers.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Vern flashed back, cheeks reddening at the sniggers which rose from Willock’s friends. ‘Well I didn’t see you doing so all-fired much abou
t them two steers that was fighting—until Cap’n Dusty come and split ’em out for you.’

  A low chuckle of laughter rose at the response, coming from the men less close to Willock. Annoyance twisted at the flashy cowhand’s face and he lurched to his feet.

  ‘If you’d done more working and less sitting watching, us men’d’ve had a heap less work to do!’ Willock snarled, looking mean and hooking his right thumb into his gunbelt close to the butt of the low-hanging Army Colt. ‘I don’t take much to carrying—’

  Watching the incident, Dusty scented potential trouble. Across the fire, the D4S’s third member, a dour, middle-aged man called Josh Narth stirred slightly as he squat on his heels. No swaggering trouble-causer, Narth had been a long time with the Sutherland family and could be counted on to side with his boss’s son. So Dusty set about nipping the discord in the bud.

  ‘All right, you pair,’ Dusty said in a carrying voice as Vern also rose. ‘Let it drop.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Willock asked, looking to where Dusty heel-squatted, cradling a coffee-cup. ‘Don’t you reckon the hen-wrangler there can take a bit of funning?’

  ‘He can take it, and hand it back,’ Dusty replied. ‘Only it’s starting to look and sound like you can’t take what he gives.’

  ‘Hell!’ Willock spat. ‘We’ve been car—’

  ‘The young ’n’ did all right today,’ Red Blaze remarked. ‘He didn’t need any carrying, what I saw of him.’

  ‘Shy out of it, Red,’ Dusty ordered, but noticed that most of the hands muttered agreement with his cousin’s statement.

  ‘Yeah, Red!’ Willock went on viciously. ‘Shy out. Unless you figure this D4S bunch can’t—’

  ‘That’s another thing!’ Dusty interrupted and gave Red a glare which prevented him from rising and carrying the matter further. ‘From now on I don’t want to hear any more talk about the D4S, Double Two, Bench P or any other damned kind of bunch. This drive’s going to be hard enough with us all pulling together. So you can forget about riding for some spread or other back to home. From here to Fort Sumner we all belong to this outfit.’

  ‘Them your orders,’ Burle asked, ‘or Colonel Charlie’s?’

  A low rumble of sound came from Swede Ahlen’s throat, but he said nothing. Maybe he was segundo at the Double Two, but on the trail drive he rated as an ordinary hand. So he sat back and waited to see how Dusty meant to deal with the cowhand’s insolence.

  ‘Feller, you’re—’ Red began, again making as if to stand up.

  ‘Stay put, Cousin Red,’ Dusty ordered.

  ‘Sure, Cousin Red,’ Willock sneered. ‘Leave us not forget that frying-size there’s got a right pretty sister along—’

  Whatever else the cowhand intended to say was never uttered. Tossing the dregs of his coffee into the fire, Dusty put down the cup and came to his feet.

  ‘All right,’ he said, in the soft tone which every OD Connected cowhand came to know so well. ‘I figured that sooner or later I’d have to prove to somebody how I got this segundo chore for more’n just being Colonel Charlie’s nephew. So tonight looks as good a time as any to do it.’

  As Red or Billy Jack could have warned Willock, if they had been so inclined, there were stormy times ahead for him. When Dusty’s voice took on that gentle, almost caressing note, it was long gone time to hunt for the cyclone-shelter. Willock did not have their knowledge of the small Texan’s ways, but did have his own reputation for toughness to consider. So he stamped in gaily where angels—or as near angels as any member of the OD Connected could be—feared to tread.

  ‘So what’s that supposed to mean?’ Willock demanded truculently.

  ‘Way I see it,’ Dusty replied. ‘You figure to be wild, woolly, full of fleas and never curried below the knees. So I’m fixing to give you a chance to prove it. Guns, or bare hands. Whichever way you want.’

  That placed the issue as straight as anyone could ask for. Looking around, Willock read eager expectancy on the faces of the other Mineral Wells men. No hint of concern for their segundo’s safety showed from the two OD Connected riders, only complete confidence in Dusty’s ability to handle Willock’s play no matter how he made it. That, and mocking pity at the cowhand for his stupidity. Even as Willock watched, Billy Jack turned and addressed Ahlen.

  ‘How do you stand on this, Swede?’

  ‘He roped the hoss,’ Ahlen replied immediately. ‘Let him ride it.’

  Along with the other newcomers, Ahlen recognized some of Dusty’s potential, but wondered if all the stories heard about his fighting prowess were true. While none of them felt inclined to make the experiment personally, the Mineral Wells crowd was not averse to watching Willock give it a try.

  Slowly Dusty began to walk around the fire. Watching the other coming his way, Willock became aware of a strange change taking place. Suddenly he found that he faced a real big man, not an insignificant nobody who held post as segundo by virtue of being Goodnight’s nephew. In some way, Dusty gave the impression of having taken on size and heft until he towered over the biggest of the crew.

  ‘If the button can’t—’ Willock commenced, hoping to turn the fight to the less dangerous Vern Sutherland.

  ‘Vern’s not in it anymore,’ Dusty warned him, continuing to advance. ‘It’s between you and me.’

  Fear bit at Willock as the small Texan delivered the ultimatum. The cowhand became increasingly aware that his salty reputation was strictly local and did not extend beyond his home ranges. Dusty Fog’s name was State-wide and, as Willock now realized, had been well-deserved. So Willock wondered how he could back down, avoid the clash, without being laughed off the drive. There was no half-way about it. Either he ate crow or took a licking for his pains. The idea of facing Dusty with a gun in his hand did not for an instant enter Willock’s head.

  Silence that could almost be felt had dropped on the camp, broken only by the thumping of Dusty’s boots as he walked. Then old Boiler Benson spoke.

  ‘Hosses coming, Cap’n Fog,’ he said, silently cursing the sound as it would most likely prevent Willock receiving a badly-needed lesson in manners. ‘Not from the herd, along our back trail.’

  Immediately he heard the words, Dusty laid aside all his thoughts on Willock’s redemption. With Goodnight still at the herd, it fell on the segundo to prepare for meeting and dealing with unexpected, possibly unwelcome visitors. So Dusty turned from the cowhand, ready to rattle out orders.

  For his part, Willock let out a sigh of relief. He decided that he owed the approaching riders a vote of thanks, no matter what brought them to the herd. In another five seconds, he would have been forced to make a hateful decision and either way he had gone would have been unpleasant. So he listened to the approaching hooves and mentally raised his hat.

  ‘Come all you fellers,

  You cowhands from Texas,

  Bring on your young ladies and gather around,

  I’ll tell you a story so sad and so gory,

  Of how Juan Ortega got put under ground.

  Ole Juan was a rowdy who never looked dowdy,

  He dressed caballero and died in his boots,

  Though his past was real shady,

  He loved but one lady,

  Her love caused the death of this king of owlhoots!”

  Getting ready to leap to their big segundo’s orders, the trail hands settled down when a pleasant tenor voice lifted over the sound of the hoofbeats. Clearly whoever came did not intend to surprise the camp. Dusty relaxed before the end of the first line, as did Red and Billy Jack, for they had identified the singer’s voice.

  ‘It’s Lon,’ Dusty told the old-timer.

  ‘That’s the Ysabel Kid,’ Solly Sodak of the Lazy F said, wanting to air his superior knowledge to the man at his side. ‘He sure sings purty.’

  Satisfied that he had given notice of his coming, the Kid did not continue with the ‘so sad and so gory’ story of Juan Ortega. Looking through the darkness, the men by the fire soon made out enough to solv
e the matter of the multiple hoofbeats. Though he was alone, the Kid had four horses trailing after him with their hackamore reins tied to his mount’s saddlehorn.

  Sitting afork his magnificent, huge white stallion—which, despite its saddle and bridle, looked as wild as any free-ranging mustang—the Kid rode into the light of the flames before stopping. Swinging his right leg up and across the saddlehorn, he dropped lightly to the ground. In his right hand he gripped the new type of Henry rifle—soon to achieve fame as the Winchester Model of 1866, or the ‘old yellowboy’ by virtue of its brass frame—given to him while helping Dusty in Mexico. An improvement on the original Henry, the rifle was much admired and several of the Swinging G’s men swore they would save sufficient money from their end-of-trail pay to purchase similar weapons.

  Travel-dirty, showing signs of having ridden far and hard, the Kid stood for a moment looking around the camp. From hat to boots, all his wearing apparel was black, including the gunbelt, which carried a walnut-handled Colt Dragoon revolver butt forward in the holster at the right side and an ivory handled James Black bowie knife sheathed at the left. Hair as black as the wing of a deep-South crow gave more hint of his Indian blood than did his red-hazel eyes and handsome, almost babyishly innocent cast of features. The eyes were alert, constantly watchful, almost alien in such a face. Dressed cowhand style, he gave the impression of latent, controlled, deadly danger; as a cougar did when sleeping on a limb.

  ‘See you’ve got a fresh relay, Lon,’ Dusty greeted, knowing the four horses led by the Kid were not those he had taken to Mineral Wells.

  ‘Left the others at the Swinging G and got some that warn’t so tuckered out,’ the dark youngster explained. ‘Where-at’s Colonel Charlie?’