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

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Indians coming, Colonel Charlie,’ announced Billy Jack with almost gloomy satisfaction as he rode to where the rancher was sitting on a knoll ahead of the trail herd.

  Not wanting to give the hands time to think about the newcomers, Goodnight had insisted on getting the herd moving in the usual manner on the morning after the de Martins’ arrival. Before Barbe had made her appearance, much to their disappointment, the cowhands had been taken out to the herd. There Goodnight had given them orders which temporarily drove all thoughts of the girl from their heads. Faced with the possibility of an Indian attack, even the three men Goodnight had named the previous night had enough good sense to concentrate on the business in hand.

  It was almost noon, with the cattle continuing to move westward. Sent ahead to act as scout in the Kid’s absence, Billy Jack had just returned to report on his findings. Galloping from the point, Mark reined in his horse and looked to the rancher for orders.

  'Throw the herd off the trail!’ Goodnight said. ‘Signal to the drag men to drop back to the wagons, then you and Swede get your men up on the point.’

  ‘Yo!’ Mark replied, turning his horse and riding away.

  After the cattle’s forward progress had ceased, Goodnight watched the trail hands taking up their allotted positions. Then the rancher and Billy Jack turned their attention to the distant riders.

  ‘Cap’n Dusty ’n’ the Kid’s with ’em,’ Billy Jack commented, relief plain in his voice.

  Even as the lanky cowhand spoke, the Kid rode ahead of the others and stopped his white stallion. Raising his rifle into the air with his right hand, he put his left up as if to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun, then indicated the men behind him.

  ‘He wants us to show the Indians our rifles when they come,’ Goodnight translated. ‘Best do it, I reckon. Fog back and tell the men I said it’s all right for them to let the Comanches look, but that none of them have to do anything that might spark off trouble.’

  ‘I’ll warn ’em good,’ Billy Jack promised.

  Left alone almost a quarter of a mile in front of the herd, Goodnight watched and waited for the Indians to arrive. A more prudent, or less knowledgeable man would have taken off the jaguar-skin vest that had become so well known to the Nemenuh. Wise in Indian ways, Goodnight did no such thing. The Comanche admired a brave man, even if he might be an enemy, and would feel the more respect if they saw he did not fear to let them know he was Chaqueta-Tigre who had caused their people grief on occasion.

  ‘How!’ Goodnight greeted as the Comanches halted and their chief accompanied Dusty and the Kid forward to where the rancher waited.

  ‘How!’ the chief answered.

  ‘This’s Pinedapoi, chief of the Yamparikuh and his hunters, Colonel,’ introduced the Kid, laying emphasis on the next-to-last word. ‘Pinedapoi, this’s Chaqueta-Tigre. The chief has come to see the guns-which-shoot-many-times.’

  ‘Take him to look at them,’ Goodnight offered, also speaking the Comanche tongue but using the dialect of the Tanima, Liver-Eater, band with which he was most familiar. He could guess at the reason for the request and willingly gave his permission. Then he turned to Dusty. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Easy enough in the end. Lon showed them how a Henry can pour out lead, and be reloaded as you shoot. After that it was just dickering.’

  One of the improvements to the ‘New Model Henry’ was that it could be loaded through a slot in the frame instead of following the old, slower way of retracting the spring and opening the entire tube on hinges. With the new rifle, one could load and fire in the manner of a single-shot, but still retain a full magazine of sixteen rounds against an emergency. As Dusty claimed, the Comanches had seen the advantage of the improvement and been much impressed.

  ‘We can go through then?’ asked the rancher.

  ‘Yes. I’ve offered them six good horses and a dozen head from the herd. It’s to show our hearts’re good, not a tribute.’

  A subtle difference which Goodnight understood. Passing through another hunting party’s area, Indian braves would share their meat as a sign of good faith. But, if strong enough to enforce their will, they did it voluntarily. Tribute implied that the people giving it had no other choice. The Yamparikuh would be less inclined to make trouble with ‘good heart’ givers than for people who paid tribute.

  Hearing a noise behind them, Dusty and Goodnight looked around. One of the braves rode from among the Yamparikuh and stared at the cattle. Taller and heavier than the majority of his companions, he had an air of truculence about him. Dressed in the style of a dandified, successful young warrior, he carried a war-axe and long-bladed knife balancing themselves on his belt and was one of the few firearms’ owners. Judging by the scalp of long, lank black hair which decorated his knife’s sheath, he had met with victory on a previous mission. Holding a tack-decorated Mississippi rifle in his right hand, he pointed towards the herd with his left and made an explosive comment to his companions.

  ‘Damn it!’ Goodnight growled, sotto voce to Dusty. ‘He’s seen Buffalo and allows that’ll be the wohaw he takes from us.’

  For his part, Dusty had already identified the brave as Apache’s Scalp, a tuivitsi approaching the status of tehnap. He had been the man who directed the Comancheros to the camp, and had returned with his companions shortly before the party set out to meet the herd that morning. The small Texan had liked little he had seen of Apache’s Scalp so far; and the suggestion did nothing to change his feelings.

  ‘The hell he does!’ Dusty breathed. ‘I can’t see the crew parting with ole Buffalo, can you?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Goodnight. ‘We’d best see what the Kid has to say about it.’

  Since assuming its post as lead steer, Buffalo had become very popular with the crew. Calm, intelligent, with none of the vicious traits which so many of its kind possessed, Buffalo had led the herd and proved invaluable. Losing it, even if the trail hands allowed that to happen, would mean that the rest of the cattle would be disturbed until a new leader asserted itself. So Dusty knew that they faced a tricky situation and started to think how it might be averted.

  Going to where the right flank’s party waited, Pinedapoi saw the repeating rifles held by some of its members. The Kid had one of them work the lever of his Spencer carbine to eject bullets, then display the remainder of its load by opening the magazine in its butt. However, having examined Leon’s weapon, the chief already knew that it would be capable of a rate of fire almost as fast as that of the Henry. With the first inspection over, they rode on in the direction of the wagons and remuda in its rope corral.

  Following the orders delivered by Billy Jack, Red Blaze had all his party formed up before the wagons. In the rear of the men stood Barbe, wearing a more demure dress than on her arrival, and Dawn, gripping her shotgun. De Martin was at Red’s right side, holding a Sharps breech-loading rifle. To Red’s left, Heenan had his right hand thumb-hooked close to the butt of his revolver.

  ‘What’s that stinking red varmint want?’ Heenan demanded.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Red replied, Spencer carbine hanging at arm’s length in both hands. ‘All of you mind what I say. No shooting unless I give the word.’

  ‘Some of us might be a mite choosier’n you about having stinking Injuns rub hoss-droppings in our faces,’ Heenan growled. ‘If it’d’ve been me, I’d’ve started throwing lead as soon as they come into range.’

  ‘You’re not handling things, hombre,’ Red reminded him. ‘So you just stand fast and do like I told you.’

  ‘I’ll think on it,’ Heenan promised, his hand crawling around towards and fingers gripping the Colt’s butt.

  Alert for any trouble, Red had been watching Heenan from the corner of his eye. Suddenly he swung his arms forward and propelled the carbine around so that its metal-shod butt crashed with some force into Heenan’s groin. With a croaking yelp, the man removed his hand hurriedly from the Colt and clutched at the stricken area. Buckling at the knees, he collapse
d to the ground where he lay moaning in agony.

  ‘You just stay down there,’ Red ordered. ‘If you didn’t mean to draw, I’ll apologize most humble later on.’

  ‘What’s the idea?’ de Martin hissed, staring at the writhing hardcase.

  ‘If that damned fool’d pulled and started shooting, we’d be up to our knees from the neck down with riledup Comanches,’ Red answered. ‘Which, with your sister along, I don’t reckon you’d want to happen.’

  If the chief had noticed the incident—and he could hardly have missed it—he regarded Red’s actions as a sign of good faith. After studying the various weapons, Pinedapoi passed on in the direction of the third and final party. Pushing away from the wagon against which she had been standing, Barbe stormed up to Red.

  ‘Why did you hit him?’ she hissed.

  ‘To stop him getting us all killed, ma’am,’ Red replied. ‘It seemed like a good thing to do at the time—and still does.’

  ‘Mr. Blaze acted correctly, my dear,’ de Martin went on. ‘Heenan acted in a foolish manner and might have endangered all our lives.’

  ‘Get him to the wagon, two of you,’ Red ordered. ‘And tell him if he’s any complaints to come and see me.’

  Although the message was delivered, Heenan declined the offer. He scowled whenever he saw Red, but made no attempt at taking reprisals.

  After seeing the number of men armed with repeating rifles or carbines, Pinedapoi realized the wisdom of accepting the ‘good heart’ gifts. The main body of the Yamparikuh band had split into a number of family or clan groups and scattered in search of horses and hunting. Any force less than the band’s full fighting strength would meet crippling losses or be completely wiped out facing so many guns-which-fire-many-times in the hands of the calm, clearly competent Texas ride-plenties. Accepting the gifts would save Pinedapoi from losing face or authority when the story was told. The Comanches admired bravery, but knew the difference between it and life-wasting stupidity.

  ‘Take our gifts and we leave the white brother in peace!’ the chief ordered on rejoining his men.

  ‘I want the wohaw that looks like a buffalo,’ announced Apache’s Scalp.

  ‘No!’ Dusty snapped, guessing what the young buck was saying when he heard the word ‘wohaw’.

  That was the name Indians gave to cattle, being derived from the commands ‘Whoa’ and ‘Haw’ used by bull-whackers to guide their draught-oxen.

  ‘You won’t let us have our gifts?’ asked Pinedapoi, brows knitting ominously.

  ‘Not the one that looks like a buffalo,’ Dusty replied.

  At Dusty’s side, the Kid tensed slightly. Dressed once more in his cowhand’s clothing, he looked young and innocent—but as ready for action as a cougar crouching to attack.

  ‘Apache’s Scalp says that he wants that wohaw,’ the chief pointed out, sounding just a touch uneasy. ‘He has a strong head for it.’

  ‘No!’ Dusty repeated and saw the Yamparikuh fingering their weapons. ‘It’s my medicine animal.’

  Instantly the hostile gestures came to a halt. Dusty’s words had put his refusal in a light the Indians understood. No man, especially a warrior of Magic Hands’ standing, would allow his medicine animal—a bringer of good luck—to be taken from him. Just as the small Texan had expected, Apache’s Scalp intended to force the issue. The tuivitsi was at an age when he wanted to prove himself the toughest and boldest brave-heart ever born. Although he had heard the story of the Devil Gun council, and about the fight with the Comancheros, the young buck chose to regard both as fabrications. Such a small man, white at that, could not be capable of a warrior’s deeds. Combined with his natural truculence and dislike of all palefaces, Apache’s Scalp was marching straight into the trap laid for him by Dusty.

  ‘I am going to take the wohaw anyway!’ the tuivitsi announced and the Kid translated the words. He slapped a hand on the hair dangling from his knife’s sheath and continued, ‘Think well before you try to stop me, small white one. This is the scalp of an Apache I wear.’

  To the Comanche, taking an Apache’s scalp ranked high among a warrior’s deeds. In the case of the savage warriors from the desert country, the old saying, ‘Anybody can scalp a dead man’ did not apply. A brave who killed an Apache considered he had done very well and wanted people to be aware of the fact.

  ‘He was a deaf Apache,’ Dusty scoffed, with the Kid for his interpreter. ‘With age in his bones and no sight in his eyes.’

  Snarling in rage, Apache’s Scalp made as if to raise his rifle. Three-quarters of a second later, he looked down the muzzle of Dusty’s left hand Colt and wondered how it came to be lined on him. With his usual speed, Dusty had drawn and cocked the gun at the other’s first hostile movement. The small Texan sat holding the tuivitsi’s life in his hands.

  ‘Throw away the rifle!’ Dusty ordered.

  ‘It’s for you to chose,’ the Kid warned after delivering the command.

  Slowly, with every evidence of sullen reluctance, Apache’s Scalp flung his rifle aside. Dusty felt a touch of relief, for he had not wished to kill the brave. However, he knew that a stronger lesson might be needed to settle Apache’s Scalp and prepared to give it. Backing off his paint stallion, Dusty holstered the Colt. Before the tuivitsi could decide what to do, Dusty tossed his right leg across the saddlehorn and jumped clear of the horse. Never taking his eyes from Apache’s Scalp, he unbuckled and removed his gunbelt to hang it on the paint’s saddle.

  ‘Tell him the buffalo-wohaw gives me real big medicine, Lon,’ Dusty ordered. ‘So much that I don’t need weapons to handle a tuivitsi. Then tell him that if he still figures to take my medicine to come right ahead and try it.’

  Apache’s Scalp listened to the words with growing disbelief and fury. Then he flung back his head and let out a roaring curse.

  ‘He must be Burle Willock’s kin,’ the Kid remarked disgustedly to Goodnight as the brave sprang from his horse. ‘That much stupidness runs in families.’

  ‘Soon I have a white man’s scalp to wrap around my war-axe!’ screeched Apache’s Scalp and snatched that weapon from his belt.

  ‘This is between the two of them, Chaqueta-Tigre?’ asked Pinedapoi.

  ‘It is,’ Goodnight confirmed and raised his voice in a bellow as he saw some of the cowhands moving restlessly. ‘Nobody interferes. Mark. Swede. Shoot down any man who tries to use his gun.’

  ‘Reckon them Injuns’ll stay out of it?’ Willock muttered as he sat at Mark’s side.

  ‘As long as we do,’ the blond giant answered. ‘Which we’re going to, even if I have to do what Colonel Charlie told me.’

  Advancing with his war-axe ready, Apache’s Scalp became aware of the change in his opponent. No longer did the ride-plenty look small, but was big, powerful and dangerous. Maybe there was truth in his words and he did gain medicine power from the buffalo-wohaw.

  Balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, Dusty watched the Comanche closing in on him. From all appearances, Apache’s Scalp had been well taught and handled the war-axe efficiently. Yet Dusty also figured that the tuivitsi would be reckless, proud of his skill and likely to act in a rash manner should things go wrong.

  Which was what Dusty intended would happen.

  Across and up lashed the war-axe’s blade, but Dusty took a step to the rear and carried himself beyond the arc of its two-foot handle. Swiftly, with little loss of momentum, the brave reversed direction, chopping savagely across. Again he missed as Dusty avoided the blow. Going forward with the force of it, he was carried past the small Texan who slammed a quickly snapped sidekick to his ribs in passing. Apache’s Scalp stumbled, caught his balance and whirled fast as Dusty moved towards him.

  Snarling in fury, the tuivitsi attacked. Time after time the deadly axe, its edge as sharp as many a barber’s razor, licked in Dusty’s direction and met only empty air. The blows became wilder, less well timed as their maker’s rage and frustration increased. Watching every move, Dusty figured that he could lu
re his attacker into some ill-advised move and where he could bring the fight to an end. The spectators on both sides were getting more excited by the second. Yells of encouragement rang out in English and Comanche, but so far neither side showed any sign of objecting to the other’s presence. Which was one of the reasons Dusty wanted to terminate the affair quickly.

  By what seemed to be an accident, Dusty slipped in the course of evading a slash. Out shot the Comanche’s left hand to catch hold of Dusty’s shirt at its open neck. With a screech of triumph, Apache’s Scalp swung up his other hand and prepared to drive the axe into the Texan’s skull. It seemed that nothing could save Dusty. Certainly the tuivitsi knew of no way in which his intended victim might escape.

  Which, unfortunately for him, was not the sum lack of Apache’s Scalp’s knowledge. He did not know about the small Oriental who worked in the Rio Hondo country as Ole Devil Hardin’s personal attendant. Nobody could say what caused Tommy Okasi to flee his native Japanese islands, for he never mentioned the subject. No matter why he left, he brought along a thorough education in his country’s unarmed fighting skills. More than that, he had passed on to the smallest male member of the Hardin-Fog-Blaze clan the secrets of ju-jitsu and karate. With such knowledge, virtually unknown outside the Orient at that time, backing his powerful muscular development, Dusty could deal with men of greater weight and superior strength. The ignorance was to cost Apache’s Scalp dearly.

  Startled yells rose from the watching trail hands, mingled with Mark’s and Ahlen’s demands that orders were obeyed. Throwing up his hands inside the tuivitsi’s left arm, Dusty crossed his wrists and interposed them between the down-driving war-axe and his head. Caught in the upper V formed by the wrists, Apache’s Scalp’s forearm halted without achieving its purpose.

  Before the tuivitsi realized the danger, Dusty slipped free his right hand to grasp the immobile wrist. Pulling it forward and downward, the small Texan twisted himself to the right. Taking a rearward step with his right foot, Dusty hauled even harder on the trapped limb and pivoted on his left leg to drag Apache’s Scalp off balance. Giving the other no chance to recover, Dusty propelled his right knee around to drive it into the exposed and offered belly.