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

by J. T. Edson

  ‘There’s no other choice,’ Goodnight answered.

  ‘What you could do,’ Dusty suggested, ‘is stop back at night, then catch up during the day. Your wagon’ll be able to make better time than we can with the herd.’

  ‘Would that be safe?’ de Martin inquired.

  ‘Safe enough,’ Dusty replied. ‘There’re no Indians up this way and we’ll be leaving a trail a blind man could follow. If there should be a sandstorm, I’ll get Lon back to guide you.’

  ‘We’ll see how it goes first,’ the photographer decided, taking Barbe’s arm as she opened her mouth. ‘Come, dear. I think we had better get a good night’s sleep, don’t you?’

  ‘If you say so,’ Barbe answered, her voice brittle.

  ‘Edmond’s got a right smart idea,’ Dusty remarked as the couple walked away. ‘We’re all going to need our sleep with what’s ahead. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m riding herd on my blankets right now.’

  The feeling appeared to be generally accepted and soon the camp had settled itself down for what would be their last night’s sleep until they reached the Pecos.

  ~*~

  Always a light sleeper, and never more so than when acting as a scout, the Kid woke as some slight, alien noise reached his ears. The normal camp sounds had left him undisturbed. Neither the changing of the night guard nor one of the crew leaving the camp to relieve himself had woken the dark youngster. Yet faint footsteps brought him from his sleep. Apart from a casual-appearing roll over in his blankets, he gave no sign of the change in his condition. Looking around, he saw nothing apparently changed. The crew still slept around the fire, except for the empty beds of the night herders. Yet somebody had sneaked away from the camp, of that he felt certain.

  In a swift, silent movement, the Kid quit his blankets and rose. He wore moccasins, was bareheaded, fully dressed and held his bowie knife. Glancing at the rifle and Dragoon Colt on his bed, he decided they would not be needed. So he flitted into the darkness without disturbing the other sleepers.

  Whoever had woken the Kid was going towards the bedded-down herd a quarter of a mile from the camp. On fast-striding, noiseless feet, the Kid followed. At last he saw a crouching figure moving through the darkness. Not fifty yards from the nearest of the steers, the figure halted. Something metallic glinted in its hand and the rapidly approaching Kid knew what it was.

  ‘Drop it!’ hissed the Kid.

  ‘What the—?’ snarled a familiar voice and the figure spun around, right arm bending to point at the dark youngster.

  Knowing what the other had planned to do, the Kid did not hesitate. Up then down swung his right hand. Leaving it, the bowie knife flashed through the air. Such was the weight, balance and cutting edge of the great knife, powered by the Kid’s trained right arm, that it severed a way through the snooper’s ribs and sank its clip point into the vital organs they protected. Reeling, the night-sneaker let his revolver drop unfired. Vainly his hands tried to draw out the knife during the brief time he had left to live. Buckling at the knees, his legs deposited him face down on the ground.

  ‘Who-all’s that?’ called a voice and Mark Counter rode from the darkness.

  ‘You had a caller,’ the Kid replied, rolling over his victim and retrieving the knife. ‘Likely Dusty’ll be interested to know who it is.’

  Which statement proved correct. On his return, the Kid found the cook and louse already preparing breakfast. Going to Dusty, the Kid shook him gently until he woke. Hearing what his dark amigo had to tell, Dusty rose immediately.

  ‘Let’s go and see what de Martin’s got to say,’ Dusty growled.

  ‘His bed’s not under the wagon,’ the Kid said as they walked that way. ‘I missed seeing that.’

  ‘Where the hell is he, then?’ Dusty asked.

  De Martin supplied the answer by looking from the rear of the wagon’s canopy. With ruffled hair and his torso bare, he gave signs of having been recently woken. Yet he had always bedded down under the wagon, except during the rainy period.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ the photographer asked.

  ‘Can you come out here, Edmond?’ Dusty said.

  ‘Of course. Just a moment,’ de Martin agreed and ducked back out of sight. The Texans heard him talking with his sister, then he appeared wearing a bath-robe which had been much admired by the cowhands on previous occasions. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Heenan,’ drawled the Kid.

  ‘What about him?’ asked the photographer.

  ‘I just now killed him for trying to stompede the herd.’

  There was no doubt that the words came as a shock to de Martin. Nor had the Kid done anything to lessen their impact, wanting to see how the other reacted.

  ‘I—I don’t understand!’ de Martin gasped.

  ‘Nor do we,’ Dusty assured him. ‘Where did you hire Heenan?’

  ‘In Graham. It was soon after we learned that Charles had already left with his herd. Heenan came to me and offered to act as my guide. From what he said, I formed the opinion he wished to leave Texas to avoid a feud. As he asked a reasonable wage, I agreed.’

  ‘You took a big chance, hiring a stranger like that,’ the Kid remarked.

  ‘It seemed safe enough,’ the photographer answered. ‘I knew that we would soon catch up with the herd. Please, Dusty. Can we continue this later? My sister was so disturbed at the thought of crossing the Staked Plains that I spent the night in the wagon to calm her. I wouldn’t want her made more nervous.’

  ‘I reckon we can,’ Dusty decided. ‘Let’s go, Lon.’

  ‘What do you reckon, Dusty?’ the Kid inquired as they walked away.

  ‘If Heenan was working for Hayden, coming with Edmond and his sister’d be a good way to get accepted by us,’ Dusty replied. ‘Then he waited his chance, or for help to catch up. When it didn’t come, he figured to scatter the herd. After the trouble at Horsehead Crossing, the crew’d not be too eager to gather the steers and go on.’

  ‘Even if they did, it’d slow us down so we’d not get to Fort Sumner on time,’ the Kid went on. ‘I’ll bet on one thing, though. De Martin didn’t know what Heenan planned.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Nobody could act as surprised as he looked. Come on, we’d best go tell Uncle Charlie what’s happened.’

  Chapter Fourteen – If This Keeps Up, I’ll Go Mad

  When told of Heenan’s attempt at stampeding the herd and death, Goodnight agreed with Dusty’s views about the former. However, the urgent nature of the drive’s next phase soon pushed all thoughts of the incident from his and Dusty’s heads. To avoid complications, they passed the word that Heenan had deserted during the night. Filled with the knowledge of what lay ahead, the trail hands accepted the excuse and were not greatly interested in why the hardcase had gone.

  When the cattle started moving that morning, there began an epic journey in the history of the West. For years to come, the first crossing of the Staked Plains by a trail herd would be spoken of in awe. Certainly the people involved would never forget it. Just as Goodnight had warned, they kept going without a pause by day or night.

  At the point, Boiler Benson and Billy Jack took over the usual leaders. The giant strength of Mark and Ahlen was of more use with the drag. There they and other men tailed up steers which had fallen or just lay down to quit, or pushed aside the stronger steers to ease the path for the weaker. Masked by bandanas to try to keep the churned-up dust from clogging their nostrils and mouths, the remainder of the crew found work in plenty. Heat-crazed steers fought among themselves or showed the savage aggression of stick-teased rattlesnakes. More than one of the trail hands owed his life to the speed and sure-footedness of his horse, when attacked by a raging longhorn. Snatching meals in the saddle, dismounting only when nature could no longer be resisted, they rode on and on, ever west.

  Ranging far ahead of the others, dependent upon his Pehnane upbringing and the ability of his horses, the Kid sought out the deadly alkali or salt lakes. Onc
e located, he checked on the wind’s direction and passed the word to Goodnight who changed the line of march to pass so that the smell of water was not carried to the cattle. In that way they avoided the greatest danger of all. Fights could be stopped, charges evaded, the weary kept moving or the ‘downers’ hauled up and made to walk. Let the thirsty cattle get but one sniff of the water and they would have pushed to it with a force that neither man nor horse could hope to halt.

  Through the three days of the drive, Dawn took her share of the work, risks and hardships. In fact, the way she plunged herself into the thickest, hardest of the grueling toil, it seemed that she sought to fill both her own and her dead brother’s places. Not only did she work hard, but her presence acted as the spur Dusty had hoped it would. What cowhand would quit, no matter how tired or dispirited he might be, when he saw the girl carrying on? At times Dawn being on hand prevented an exhausted cowboy from just giving up. Although every muscle, fiber and bone ached with weariness, the girl continued to ride the herd.

  On the morning of the fourth—and they hoped last—day, Dusty sent Dawn back to see if the de Martins were all right. His main reason for the order was to take the girl from the dangers of the herd, if only for a short time. Reluctantly she agreed and rode away through the dust of the drag.

  Even the girl did not realize just how tired she was. Once clear of the constant exertion and the ever-present need to remain alert, she found trouble in keeping her eyes open. In fact she actually went to sleep, only her years of riding training keeping her balanced in the saddle. The sound of a female voice raised in anger jolted Dawn awake. Staring ahead, she found that her bayo-tigre gelding was approaching her destination. The de Martins’ wagon stood with its team unhitched and flaps opened so that the approaching girl could see inside. Dressed in a robe, a disheveled Barbe faced de Martin furiously.

  ‘If this keeps up, I’ll go mad!’ the black-haired girl was screaming. ‘You said it would all be over before we had to—’

  At that moment the photographer slapped his sister hard across the cheek. The force of the blow knocked her sprawling on to the unmade bed, sobbing in pain. Then he heard the sound of Dawn’s horse. Whirling around, he snatched a Remington Double Derringer from the top of a trunk to line it in the newcomer’s direction.

  ‘Oh it’s you, Dawn!’ de Martin greeted, lowering the little hide-out pistol.

  ‘Cap’n Dusty sent me back to see if everything’s all right,’ Dawn replied, wondering where a dude like the photographer had learned such fast, efficient gun-handling.

  A muffled croak broke from the weeping Barbe, but de Martin went to her side and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘It is,’ he assured Dawn. ‘My sister was just a little hysterical and I had to quieten her, but we’re all right.’

  ‘Will she be all right?’

  ‘Yes. I can take care of her.’

  ‘Can I help you hitch up your team, or anything?’

  ‘No!’ de Martin stated emphatically. ‘You’ve probably got enough on your hands with the herd.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ Dawn admitted. ‘Well, if there’s nothing I can do—’

  ‘Not a thing,’ de Martin insisted. ‘In fact, I can probably cope with Barbe better alone—’

  ‘Sure,’ Dawn said. ‘You’ll find the chuck wagon maybe a mile and a half along the trail. I’ll get back to the herd.’

  With that, she rode in the direction of the herd. Curiosity made her turn in the saddle when about a hundred yards from the wagon. De Martin was bending over his sister talking in what Dawn felt to be an angry manner. Figuring it was none of her business, the girl continued to ride after the herd. Before she had reached the drag, something happened to make her put the de Martins out of her mind.

  Up at the point, Billy Jack and Boiler Benson saw Buffalo start to sniff the air in a restless manner. At a signal from the old-timer, Goodnight and Dusty rode up. They too noticed the change in the lead steer’s behavior and turned worried faces to each other.

  ‘There’s a lake among the broken country ahead! ‘Dusty said worriedly. ‘If the wind’s changed—’

  ‘Yes!’ Goodnight answered and the one word was encyclopedic in its inference.

  More of the leading steers raised their heads, joining Buffalo in excited bawling. The sounds rose to a crescendo as the leg-weary longhorns increased their pace. From a weary, dragging gait, they changed to a hesitant trot, then to a faster run. Soon the front section of the herd was racing forward with a dogged, blind determination that knew no stopping.

  ‘God damn all fool steers!’ Goodnight cursed impotently and profanely as the tired cowhands tried to halt the rush.

  A mile fell behind, then two, with no sign of the cause for the steers’ behavior. At last Billy Jack saw the sun glinting on something ahead. For all his previous gloomy predictions, the cowhand felt a sickening sense of frustration and rage. After so long they were in danger of losing most of the herd. Unless—

  ‘It’s not a lake!’ Billy Jack screamed the words above the sounds of hooves, bellowing steers and shouting men. ‘By the Good Lord, it’s the Pecos!’

  ‘It’s the Pecos!’ Catching the words, another of the hands sent them ringing through the air. ‘It’s the lovely, son-of-a bitching Pecos!’

  So it was. Instead of a lake with misery and death in every mouthful, the water ahead was the Pecos River. Scented almost three miles back by the steers, it had drawn them on and given the inducement they needed to reach it.

  By that time the herd had spread itself into a long, segmented line as the fitter steers drew ahead. Even the drags had caught the fever of excitement and were pushing along at their best possible speed, although Mark and his eight-strong party still found the need to help the weakest.

  Down to the river’s bank rushed the leading cattle. Buffalo and the first of the steers plunged in without hesitation, only to be pushed through by the crush from behind. Yet even that was not as dangerous as it might have been, for they went on, turning back and moving up or downstream until they found a place to enter and drink.

  Among the cowhands accompanying the front of the herd, Dawn followed the cattle towards the Pecos. Knowing her strength limited her usefulness in the drag, she had pushed on along the line to help try to stop the rush. Keeping with the men, she rode into the river. Profane hilarity filled the air as rider after rider flung himself from his saddle to disappear beneath the surface. Coming up, gasping and spluttering, Dawn looked around her. While the Pecos River lacked the sparkling, crystal-clear quality of a snow-fed mountain brook, none of the crew thought the less of it. At that moment they would rather be drinking its water than the finest whiskey money could buy.

  ‘We’ve done it!’ Dawn screamed, throwing her arms around the nearest man and kissing his bristle-stubbled cheek. ‘We’ve done it!’

  ‘We for sure have!’ whooped the recipient, Billy Jack, then realized that such enthusiasm would ruin his image. ‘I’ll bet either them or us drown or get bogged in a quicksand, mind.’

  ‘Get ’em out of it and to work, Dustine!’ Goodnight ordered through his water-sodden whiskers, pounding his grinning nephew on the back. ‘The rest of the drive’re coming and’ll need handling.’

  The Staked Plains had been crossed, the Pecos River lapped around their hips, but there was still work to do. Gathering the cowhands, including a bright-eyed, wildly happy Dawn, Dusty set half to control the arriving cattle, move those that had watered away from the river and hold them. The other half went back with him to meet the drag. It said much for the self-control of the riders in Mark’s party that they had stuck to their posts and continued with the grueling work of keeping the drag moving.

  Not until noon did the last of the herd quench its thirst and cross the river. The chuck and bed-wagons had arrived and come to the western bank to join the cattle and remuda. Last on the scene were the de Martins, helped over in their wagon by laughing, delighted men. There had been losses during the final rush, but not heavy a
nd still more than sufficient steers remained to fulfill the Army’s contract.

  ‘All right!’ Dusty told the assembled trail crew. ‘You’ve done real well and deserve a rest. So I’m giving you a holiday. Right through to tomorrow at sun-up.’

  ‘I dearly love a generous, kind-hearted boss,’ Red Blaze whooped. ‘Danged if I don’t celebrate by having me a bath.’

  The idea caught on and a steady stream of cowhands left the camp carrying a change of clothing and, if they owned such refinements, towels. Going to the bed-wagon, Dawn climbed in. It had been cleared of bedrolls by men wanting clothing or the means to reload their soaked revolvers. So she opened up her war bag with the intention of following Red’s suggestion. First, however, she figured to let the men get through. Lying on her blankets, she drifted off to sleep.

  Voices woke the girl and she stayed still for a moment until her sleep-dazed senses cleared. Looking out of the wagon, she concluded the time to be late afternoon. Then she rose, listening to what was being said.

  ‘Barbe has gone along the river to bathe, Jacko,’ came de Martin’s cultured tones. ‘Can you go and ask her to come back?’

  ‘Sure can,’ agreed the cowhand, sounding just a touch too eager. ‘Which way did she go?’

  ‘Upstream, among those bushes,’ de Martin explained. ‘I’d go myself, but I want to take some photographs.’

  ‘Shuckens, I don’t mind doing you ’n’ Miss Barbe a favour,’ Jacko protested.

  ‘I can just bet you don’t!’ Dawn thought as she waited silently. ‘Not when there’s maybe a chance of seeing her taking a bath.’

  Before lying down to rest, the girl had removed her boots. She slipped on a pair of Indian moccasins, picked up the clothing set out earlier, draped her gunbelt across her right shoulder and left the wagon. Already de Martin was strolling towards the fire and Jacko was going at a fair speed in the direction of the bushes. Dawn darted after the cowhand and he turned as he heard her coming.