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

by J. T. Edson

  ‘If you pair don’t have anything better to do,’ Red said coldly. ‘Stay clear of the herd. Get going.’

  ‘How dare y—!’ Barbe began in a loud voice.

  ‘He’s right,’ Dawn put in. ‘Turn your hoss and let’s get going.’

  For a moment Barbe glared furiously at the other girl and met cold challenge. Then the dark-haired girl swung her mount and rode after the cowhands. Dawn turned to Red and sighed.

  ‘Damned fool kid!’ she said.

  ‘Who me?’ asked Red.

  ‘You too. Only I meant that damned fool kid brother of mine. He’d’ve got licked for sure happen you hadn’t cut in.’

  ‘And still might, him and Burle both, when Dusty hears what’s come off. You’d best get going back to camp, Dawn. One I’m sorry for’s Jacko.’

  ‘I reckon he’s sorry for hisself,’ Dawn said without humor. ‘Only you had to stop him and he’s lucky you didn’t do it with a gun. We’ll not come out here again.’

  Catching up to Jacko, Dawn tried to show him what might have happened. He only snarled back at her and, wisely, she let the matter drop. Leaving the cowhand, Dawn went after Barbe to catch her just after she joined Willock.

  ‘He had no right to talk to you like that,’ Barbe was saying when Dawn arrived. ‘It was shameful and—’

  ‘Yeah!’ Willock answered. ‘I’m not going to forget it.’

  ‘You mustn’t antagonize him, Burle,’ Barbe warned. ‘After all, his uncle is leader of the trail drive.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Willock muttered. ‘Goodnight and his kin run the drive.’

  ‘Which they don’t do bad at it,’ Dawn commented, deftly inserting her horse between Barbe’s and Willock’s mounts.

  ‘Depends,’ Willock grunted.

  ‘What on?’ Dawn asked coldly.

  ‘How good friends you are with ’em,’ the cowhand answered. ‘There’s some of us get on better with ’em than the others do.’

  ‘What might that mean?’ Dawn demanded.

  ‘Look who’s been sent back to the herd,’ Willock told her.

  At that moment they saw Dusty riding towards them. Halting his horse, the small Texan asked Willock what brought him and Jacko away from the herd.

  ‘Maybe you’d best tell him,’ Willock said to Dawn, a hint of challenge in his voice.

  Sucking in an angry breath, Dawn did so. ‘Sure, if you don’t have the guts to,’ she answered. ‘Him and Vern got to tangling back there. It was Vern who started the fight—’

  ‘I think that it was no more than a harmless piece of horseplay and neither were to blame,’ Barbe put in, smiling in her most winning manner at Dusty. Then she put on a frown. ‘But your cousin had no right to treat them so roughly. He kicked that poor cowboy in the—well, he kicked him savagely.’

  ‘Jacko tried to pull a gun on Red,’ Dawn put in and Willock, annoyed at his crony for drawing Barbe’s sympathy, nodded agreement.

  ‘Then he got what he asked for and’s lucky it’s not worse,’ Dusty said, showing no signs of being won over. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Red sent me ’n’ Jacko back to tell you he wants two more—’

  ‘Three more!’ Dawn interrupted and corrected Willock. ‘He said three more. Only reason he didn’t send Vern along was he figured you pair’d be loco enough to start fussing again on the way in.’

  ‘And he’d likely’ve been right,’ Dusty said, his voice almost mild. ‘It sounds like there’s not enough work for you knobheads xix out at the herd. I’ll have to see if I can’t find you something to fill the time.’

  By that time Willock had come to know Dusty real well and he stifled a groan. One way or another, he figured that he, Jacko and Vern were going to pay a stiff price for their stupid attempts to gain Barbe’s favors.

  Chapter Twelve – He’s Not Wearing A Gun

  Burle Willock found his guess to be correct. Making sure to divide the work evenly, Dusty kept the trio fully occupied. He did so well at it that all of them barely found time to do more than glimpse the source of their rivalry in passing from one chore to the next. At night they found themselves riding guard on the herd or sent to man the lonely picket points Dusty had set out to prevent any chance of a surprise attack. In that manner he kept them away from the campfire at those times when Barbe was near it. More than that, Dusty had taken each of the trio aside on their return to the camp and given his opinion of their conduct, intelligence and general worth. None had enjoyed the interview. However, Jacko appeared to realize that he had got no more than he deserved and might have been far worse off. The other two promised to mend their ways and seemed to be making a try at doing it. If Barbe felt like going riding again, she never mentioned it.

  The work went ahead fast. After a thorough check on each horse in the remuda, a party under Billy Jack started work on replacing missing or badly worn shoes. Under old Boiler Benson’s knowing eyes, saddlery was inspected and repairs carried out. Then the cook organized the unloading of the chuck and bed-wagons, bracing each of them in its turn so that its wheels could be removed and the axles greased. On the morning of the fourth day only the de Martins’ wagon remained to be put in a condition where it could survive the hazardous crossing.

  Wanting to see if they had learned their lesson, Dusty let Vern, Willock and Jacko help the photographer empty the wagon. Having Mark in charge, he felt that any trouble would be dealt with promptly. Although Vern and Willock scowled at and studiously pretended to ignore each other, they gave every appearance of having profited by the lessons of the past days.

  Boxes and trunks came from the wagon, while Barbe hovered around. One of the boxes gave off a familiar clinking sound which drew interested looks from Willock and Jacko.

  ‘Thirsty work this, Jacko,’ Willock commented, flickering a gaze at Barbe as they spoke.

  ‘Sure is,’ Jacko agreed, running his tongue tip over his lips. ‘And nothing but water to take for it.’

  ‘You have nothing but water?’ Barbe asked.

  ‘Nary a thing but that ’n’ coffee,’ Willock agreed. ‘Colonel Charlie don’t allow no hard liquor on his drive.’

  At that moment Mark came into sight around the end of the wagon and the conversation ended. The work went on without incident and towards evening they started to reload the wagon. While passing a box up to where Turkey stood at the tailgate, Vern heard the sound of approaching hooves. Both of them turned to look, each expecting the other to retain his hold. Instead neither did, so the box fell and burst open. It held items of feminine underclothing and a large, leather-bound book. The latter bounced and landed open at the feet of de Martin and Dusty as they walked towards Goodnight’s returning party.

  ‘You clumsy b—!’ Barbe began furiously, then chopped off her words as de Martin glared at her.

  Bending down to help gather the scattered contents, Dusty found himself looking at several photographs in the book. All appeared to be of a wedding and in one de Martin stood at Barbe’s side. He wore a top hat and fashionable suit while she was dressed in white, with a veil over her hair and bouquet of flowers in her hands. Before Dusty could do more than glimpse the picture, Barbe snatched the book from him and slammed it shut.

  ‘I’ll take that!’ she said, going to place it in the box.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dusty,’ de Martin said. ‘But there are a few photographs which Barbe regards as embarrassing. That was a picture of our cousin’s wedding. Barbe was maid-of-honor and I was best man. It was disappointing. The rumor that the best man has the first night just isn’t true.’

  ‘I found that out for myself,’ Dusty admitted, watching a spluttering Vern and Turkey blushingly help Barbe pick up the remainder of the contents. They hurriedly handed over the various garments and she packed the box then let them place it in the wagon. ‘I’d best go and see what Uncle Charlie found out.’

  ‘May I come with you?’ de Martin asked.

  ‘Feel free,’ Dusty replied and called some of the men to give orders that they should t
ake care of the new arrivals’ horses. ‘How’d it go, Uncle Charlie?’

  ‘No worse than we expected,’ Goodnight replied. ‘There’s been some rain up this way, but we’ll still have three days of solid dry driving to reach the Pecos. We’ll start the crossing at sun-up tomorrow.’

  ‘May I offer a suggestion, Charles?’ de Martin put in.

  ‘Go to it.’

  ‘If Dusty doesn’t have any further plans for us, how about letting all hands have a night’s relaxation?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I understand that Rowdy plays the fiddle and has one along. Perhaps we could have a social evening. Of course Barbe and Dawn won’t be able to partner the whole crew for dancing … ’

  ‘That’s easy enough settled,’ Dusty smiled. ‘We’ll put a heifer-brand on some of the boys.’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ de Martin said.

  ‘It’s the way we have out here, usually being short on women for dances and such,’ Goodnight explained. ‘So some of the fellers have a white rag tied around their left arms and dance “lady” fashion.’

  ‘Not many of them object to being heifer-branded, seeing’s how they get to sit with the ladies,’ Dusty went on. ‘Although they most times wind up looking at the bar most unladylike.’

  ‘That won’t happen tonight,’ Goodnight stated. ‘They can fun all they like, but there’ll be no drinking.’

  ‘With Rowdy keeping his medicine bottle locked up tight in the wagon, they won’t have anything to drink,’ Dusty replied. ‘I’ll fix things up, if it’s all right with you, Uncle Charlie.’

  ‘Go to it,’ the rancher authorized. ‘Ask Miss Barbe and Dawn to lend you a hand while you’re at it.’

  News of the proposed evening’s entertainment was greeted with considerable enthusiasm by the trail crew. Dusty warned them that night herding would continue, but agreed to leave off the pickets. Knowing that the cattle came first, the cowhands raised no objections. Especially when they discovered that he had organized a rota which allowed everybody to spend as much time as possible at the festivities.

  Due to the shortage of ‘for real’ lady partners—heifer brands formed a poor substitute—Dawn was excused taking her turn on the night herd. Following the rangeland custom, she and Barbe were permitted to select the men who wore the heifer brands. Although Dusty did not care for the girls picking Vera and Willock, they produced a mighty good argument in favor of their choice. That way neither cowhand could partner Barbe, removing a cause of friction between them. So Dusty gave in, it being the ladies’ prerogative to select their own company.

  Certainly the dance began with reasonable decorum. Barbe wore the dress in which she had presented herself on the night she arrived and Dawn produced a gingham frock brought along to use on reaching Fort Sumner. The music was supplied by Rowdy on his battered violin, Turkey playing a Jew’s harp and Swede Ahlen giving backing with a blow-fiddle. xx Perhaps the sounds they emitted would not have been acceptable in a fancy Eastern hotel, but the uncritical audience buckled down to dancing with vim if not grace.

  After a few dances, somebody called on the Kid for a song. Once he had obliged with such of Juan Ortega’s story as was fit for mixed company, other members of the crew responded with their party-pieces. Everything was going smoothly and in such good spirits that Dusty relaxed. It seemed that Vern and Willock had forgotten the fight. Certainly they made the most of their ‘heifer-brand’ positions, by allowing their ‘partners’ to bring them cups of coffee or the minor luxuries Rowdy had been able to produce at such short notice for the ‘guests’. Even Heenan appeared to be joining in the fun for Dusty saw him handing a cup of coffee to Willock in an interval between the dance sets.

  ‘And I tell you there ain’t nobody can lick Swede Ahlen at Injun-wrestling!’ Solly Sodak of the Lazy F announced in a loud voice during a lull in the noise and brought every eye his way.

  ‘Mark there can,’ objected Red Blaze, having been involved with the cowhand in a discussion for some minutes. ‘Which I’ve got five whole dollars to prove it.’

  ‘How about that, Swede,’ called Sodak. ‘Are you going to help me get rich at ole Red’s expense?’

  Once brought up, the subject aroused much interest and demanded settlement. Never averse to putting his skill and strength on display, Ahlen suggested that he and Mark should satisfy the bettors promptly.

  Producing his sturdy chopping-block and muttering dire warnings of what would happen if it be damaged in any way, Rowdy set it in position by the fire. Taking up their places on either side of the block, each of the contestants rested his right elbow on the chopping surface and gripped the other’s raised right hand. Appointed judge, Rowdy waited until the audience had formed around the block and gave the order to start.

  ‘I’ve got ten dollars’s says it lasts for more than twenty minutes,’ a man said and another took the bet.

  Certainly all knew that they faced a lengthy session of Indian-wrestling, for the contestants were evenly matched. Mark’s slight advantage in strength was counter-balanced by Ahlen’s extra experience. Excitement filled the audience as the seconds ticked away and they were oblivious of anything but the two men at the chopping block. Straining in their efforts to force down the opposing hand, Mark and Ahten put all their considerable strength into beating the other.

  Shortly after the contest began, Willock became aware that Barbe was not in the crowd. Looking around, he saw her going towards the de Martins’ wagon and edged back to follow her.

  Laughter, advice—mostly impractical or impossible—and offers of further bets flashed noisily among the spectators. So great was the racket that it drowned out the sounds of cursing, shouting and scuffling from behind the de Martin wagon. Dusty as first to become aware of the trouble, although up to that point he had not noticed certain absentees from the crowd.

  Suddenly Willock reeled into sight from behind the wagon. Catching his balance, he drove out a blow at the head of Vern as the youngster followed him. Running into Willock’s fist, Vern went backwards and sat down hard.

  ‘Don’t shoot him!’ Barbe screamed, appearing beyond the two cowhands.

  Spitting out a curse and mouthful of blood, Vern stabbed his hand towards his side. Already moving in to attack, Willock skidded to a halt, drew and fired. Vern rocked backwards as lead ripped into his chest and sprawled on to the ground.

  Dusty went through the crowd as if it did not exist. At the sound of the shot, Mark and Ahlen released each other. The rest of the crowd forgot the contest, bets, everything except what met their eyes as they faced the de Martins’ wagon. A concerted rush followed on the small Texan’s heels. Faster than the rest, Dawn reached her brother almost as soon as Dusty. She went to her knees at Vern’s side, staring at the wound and reading its serious nature.

  Tense and watchful, yet without making a hostile movement, Dusty faced Willock. Every sense the small Texan possessed warned him of danger. After shooting the youngster, Willock had re-cocked his revolver. Now he stood on spread-apart legs, with an over-casually balanced stance that, taken with the loose-lipped, slobbering grin on his face, screamed a deadly warning to one experienced in such signs. For all that, Dusty could not believe Willock was drunk no matter how he looked or acted. Silence fell on the crowd behind Dusty as they waited for him to make a move.

  ‘What happened?’ Dusty asked quietly.

  ‘The fodder-forker pushed his luck too far is what,’ Willock replied, his voice slightly slurred but tuned to sound tough and mean.

  ‘Vern’s dead!’ Dawn gasped, looking at the two men.

  ‘So he was going for his gun and I stopped him!’ Willock growled. ‘That’s—’

  ‘He’s not wearing a gun!’ Red Blaze put in, having moved forward to kneel at Dawn’s side. ‘His holster’s empty.’

  Angry comments rumbled up at the words. Looking over his shoulder, Dusty saw Narth moving forward with the Swinging G cowhands flanking him. At the same time, Jacko and two other Min
eral Wells men came together. Dusty was suddenly aware that all but Ahlen of the older Mineral Wells men were riding the night herd. That deprived him of what might have been a restraining influence. Dusty’s sense of danger increased. There was trouble in the air, a peril to the success of the herd as serious as any Hayden’s hired guns might have caused. One wrong word or move might easily explode the whole camp into blazing gunplay.

  ‘If that’s right—!’ Narth began grimly.

  ‘I’ll handle it,’ Goodnight interrupted, joining Dusty. ‘Put the gun up, Burle, and let’s talk this out.’

  ‘What’s to talk about?’ the cowhand demanded truculently. ‘I pulled on him when Miss Barbe yelled. How was I to know he didn’t have a gun?’

  ‘Easily enough,’ de Martin commented, walking to his sister’s side from the rear of the wagon. ‘You’d seen Vern loan me his gun so that I didn’t go unarmed into the bushes.’

  ‘Why you—’ Narth spat out, right hand dropping to his Colt’s butt.

  Fingers like steel grasped Narth’s fist, crushing it in a powerful grip and preventing him from drawing the gun. Twisting his head, the cowhand looked into Mark Counter’s face and heard the other’s soft-spoken warning.

  ‘Leave it be, amigo. Colonel Charlie’ll see the right’s done.’

  Slowly Dawn raised her head. No tears came, but her face held lines of grief and anger. Lifting her eyes to Goodnight’s, she said in a bitter voice, ‘What’re you going to do about it, Colonel? He murdered my brother.’

  Again the low rumble of comment rose. Every man in the camp knew of the last grim article in the contract they had signed before leaving the Swinging G. Looking back, Dusty saw two separate groups starting to form. About half of the men, Goodnight’s hands included, moved to where Narth stood by Mark. The second party consisted of Willock’s cronies and looked to Ahlen for guidance. As the accused cowhand’s segundo, Jacko and the others wanted to know where the big blond stood in the affair.

  So did Dusty, come to that, and he asked, ‘How about it, Swede?’