Goodnight's Dream (A Floating Outfit Western Book 4) Read online

  ‘Neither have Dusty and the OD Connected boys,’ Goodnight answered. ‘That’s why they’re coming along. Maybe your pappy and some of his neighbors would like to send hands to drive the cattle and learn how it’s done.’

  ‘They’ll be green hands,’ Mark said.

  ‘And so will the crews that go north to Kansas,’ Goodnight replied. ‘So if it comes off, this’ll be more than just a trail drive. You know that we’ve no industries in Texas capable of competing on a national level and no mineral resources to bring money into the State. xvii All we’ve got is cattle. But we’ve got more of them than any other state or territory in this whole country. And we’ve got the grazing land to keep on raising them. But not if we have to sell out breeding stock and strip the ranges bare for the hide-and-tallow factories. If we can get to Kansas, we’ll have a market for beef and won’t need to sell bulls or cows at three dollars a head. Dawn, boys, if we can show that it’s possible to trail a big herd, we’ll help haul this old State of our’n up by its boot-straps and set it back on its feet.’

  Then the rancher coughed and his face resumed its usual grim, unemotional lines. He studied the four young faces and saw no derision to his rhetoric. Instead they glowed with enthusiasm.

  ‘You mean you’ll take some of our boys along just so they can learn how it’s done?’ Dawn asked.

  ‘I will,’ Goodnight agreed. ‘Then they’ll be able to teach others and the money the cattle bring will help finance your drives north.’

  If Dawn had felt admiration for Goodnight before, it increased in leaps and bounds at his words. Instead of taking advantage of his neighbors, buying their stock cheap and taking it to sell at a vast profit, he was offering to share his good fortune with them. More than that, he appeared willing to let some of them go along to learn the trail and how to handle a large bunch of cattle.

  Dusty felt no such surprise at his uncle’s generosity. Money meant little to a man like Charles Goodnight. His main aim was to set Texas back on its feet, to find a way to rebuild the war-ruined economy of the State. Cattle offered him that way, so he was willing to throw his experience to the benefit of his neighbors. Once other ranchers saw the trailing of large herds was possible, they could be counted on to make the attempt. Using the countless herds of longhorns that roamed practically unchecked over the Texas ranges, the ranchers would bring badly needed money into the State. Then there could be development, growth, expansion. That was Goodnight’s dream. Dusty and the floating outfit had been sent by die Devil Hardin to help Goodnight make his dream come true.

  Chapter Ten

  That’s Sutherland’s Golondrino

  ‘Remember, Miss Dawn,’ Goodnight told the girl as she sat on her bayo-tigre gelding ready to start the journey home. ‘The men your pappy and neighbors pick to come must be here with the cattle in eight days at most.’

  ‘We’ll be here,’ the girl promised. ‘Eleven hundred head, all steers.’

  ‘That’s it,’ the rancher agreed. ‘They travel faster than a mixed herd and steers’re what the Army want.’

  ‘I’ll mind it all,’ she promised.

  ‘Watching the girl’s eager face, Goodnight hoped that she was not raising her hopes too high and was doomed for disappointment. A pioneer at the business of long-distance cattle herding, he knew the risks involved and the problems it presented. Even with a smaller herd and trained crew, reaching Fort Sumner was anything but a sinecure. Taking along fifteen men—skilled as they might be at general ranch work—who had never been on an extended journey of that kind multiplied the odds against getting the steers through.

  Yet the try must be made and the experience gained by the cowhands would be invaluable on later drives. Given the cooperation of Sutherland and his neighbors, the drive might come off and pave the way for the rest of Goodnight’s dream to become a reality.

  It was dawn and, despite sitting up late discussing the scheme, the girl was ready to ride home. Mark and the Kid, the former authorized to act as Goodnight’s spokesman, were to accompany her. Riding relay, they hoped to make very fast time to her home and make an early start at gathering the cattle. The steers retrieved from Chisum were to be added to Goodnight’s shipping herd, for Dawn knew her father would leap at the chance offered by the bearded rancher.

  After seeing his friends leave with Dawn, Dusty waited at the Swinging G house for Goodnight to complete some work. Then they collected their horses from the stables.

  Two hours later, Dusty sat at the side of a small lake. With his left leg hooked up comfortably over the horn of his paint stallion’s saddle, he looked around with interest. Scattered before him were numerous specimens of the creature upon which the future of Texas depended. They were two thousand head of longhorn steers gathered and held together by Goodnight’s men. Surrounded by plentiful grazing, protected from visitations by predatory animals, with good water close at hand, the steers showed a little inclination to roam. Of course the arrival of the D4S cattle—brought from the vicinity of the ranch house by the men coming to handle the herd during the day—could be expected to make the Swinging G stock restless. Yet Dusty could see little sign of it so far.

  Although every bit as much creatures of a herd as American bison, prairie-dogs or pronghorn antelope, the longhorns did not show the other species’ uniformity of coloration. Steers of almost every imaginable animal color dotted the land before Dusty. Brindles, duns, dark, washed-out or Jersey creams, bays, browns, reds, blacks, whites, mulberry, ring-streaked or speckled blues, grullas the mousey brown shade of sandhill cranes, golondrinos, and mixtures of colors almost beyond number or belief. All in all, they made a gaudy picture and it seemed strange that such creatures might be the salvation of a great State.

  ‘That’s a fine gather you’ve made, Uncle Charlie,’ Dusty commented, turning to where his uncle sat by his side.

  ‘Good enough,’ the rancher agreed. ‘Only we’ll not be able to hold them here for much more than a week. John Poe allows they were a mite restless last night.’

  ‘He reckon it was somebody making them that way?’

  ‘Nope. There were wolves howling off to the south. We’ll have to keep them close watched from now on, though. They don’t take to being held over-long in one place even on good grazing.’

  ‘Given just a smidgen of good Texas luck, Mark’ll have Dawn’s folk from Mineral Wells in seven days at most. I’ll bet that gal doesn’t give anybody a lick of peace until she’s got the cattle headed here.’

  ‘I only hope that—’ Goodnight began.

  ‘Colonel Charlie!’ a cowhand called and pointed to the east. ‘Riders coming.’

  Bringing down his raised foot, Dusty joined his uncle in looking at the approaching men. They were about fifteen in number, but still too far away for Dusty and the rancher to make out details of their dress or faces.

  ‘Could be the sheriff and a posse,’ Dusty remarked.

  ‘Ward Kater’s not with ’em ,’ Goodnight answered after a moment. ‘He’d be up front if he was.’

  ‘They’re cowhands, mostly,’ Dusty said as the men drew closer. ‘Could be they’ve heard about Chisum pulling out and’re looking for work.’

  By that time the riders were near enough for Goodnight to make identifications and he shook his head.

  ‘They’re not. That big feller up the front’s Tom Wardle, runs the Bench P. Then there’s Harry Hultze of the Double Two, Myron Colburn from the Lazy F and Mel Jones of the Flying H. Rest of ’em look like hands from their spreads.’

  ‘All of them lost cattle to Chisum,’ Dusty breathed. ‘They friends of yours?’

  ‘Not what you’d call close friends,’ Goodnight admitted. ‘Tom Wardle was took prisoner by the Yankees in the War and worked up a real hate for them, way he was treated in their prison-camp. That hate takes in anybody who didn’t ride for the South. Rest of them’re his neighbors and go along with his play.’

  A frown creased Dusty’s brow as he turned over Goodnight’s words. While a loy
al Texan, his uncle had declined to take up arms for the South. Facing the bands of marauding Indians, Mexican bandidos or Comancheros had been every bit as dangerous as wearing the blue or gray in defense of one’s beliefs. Unfortunately, not all who went to war saw it in that light. Some of the returned veterans regarded non-participants with suspicion and enmity.

  There was another point to consider. All of the men had lost cattle that should have been delivered into Goodnight’s herd.

  For some reason they had left the trail of the stolen cattle. That reason could mean trouble for the bearded rancher. With that in mind, Dusty gave his full attention to the approaching party.

  In the lead rode a tall, well-built man wearing a white Jeff Davis campaign hat, open military tunic with a major’s star on the collar and the ‘chicken-guts’ insignia of the same rank on its sleeves. Yellow-striped cadet-gray riding breeches and shining boots completed his clothing. A weapon belt of issue design, except that its holster had no top, was cinched about his lean middle. His mustached face was set in grim lines and had the air of expecting obedience about it.

  All the others wore range clothes in varying degrees of value. The two tall, lean men and the short, thickset rider immediately behind the military figure had the indefinable look of employees rather than employed. Every member of the party had at least one holstered revolver and several carried rifles across their knees. The latter struck Dusty as being particularly ominous. Men on a peaceful mission, or in search of help, did not approach in such a manner.

  At a sign from the military man, most of the party halted and fanned into a fighting line. Followed by the other three ranchers, all darting suspicious glances at the cattle, the leader came towards Goodnight and Dusty.

  ‘Howdy, Tom,’ Goodnight greeted. ‘You’re a mite off your home range.’

  ‘So’s some of our cattle,’ Wardle answered, sitting cavalry-smart in his saddle and looking from Goodnight to Dusty. ‘Heard tell that John Chisum was bringing you a herd. Did he get it here?’

  ‘Had it outside Graham yesterday,’ Goodnight admitted.

  ‘Did you check the brands before you took the herd from him?’ demanded the lanky Myron Colburn. ‘See, Colonel Charlie, we’ve all lost a fair slew of cattle and trailed ’em up this way.’

  ‘And you reckon that I might have stolen stock in my herd?’ Goodnight asked.

  While Wardle regarded anybody who stayed at home during the War as being a Yankee sympathizer, he had never doubted Goodnight’s honesty. So he threw an angry glare at his companions, then turned to Goodnight and shook his head.

  ‘Nobody’s accusing you, Charlie,’ Wardle stated. ‘Only we heard Chisum was headed this way and came over to see him.’

  ‘He’s not here,’ Goodnight told the ranchers. ‘As soon as I saw the brands on the herd, I knew he didn’t own them and told him that I didn’t want them.’

  ‘Looks like we come up here for nothing,’ grunted the thickset Hultze. ‘I told you that we should’ve stuck to the tracks instead of coming straight here.’

  While his uncle talked with the ranchers, Dusty studied the rest of the men. All but three looked like ordinary cowhands, tough, capable, loyal to the brands they rode for. The exceptions sat just a shade away from the others. Not much, but sufficient for a man who knew the signs to notice.

  Slouching in their saddles, the trio were tall men. One had red hair, surly features and wore a low-hanging Colt while cradling a Spencer carbine across his right arm. The second was black-haired, dark, broken-nosed with cruel eyes and armed like the first. Although his companions might have passed as cowhands, the third man certainly could not. A dirty coonskin cap fitted over long, lank brown hair while his lean face was bristle-stubbled. His grease-blackened buckskin shirt tucked into blue cavalry breeches from which Indian leggings extended to the tops of his moccasins. His belt carried a Navy Colt and a long cavalry saber. Laying across the crook of his arm was a brass-tack decorated Sharps rifle.

  The three men sat listening to the conversation and Dusty noticed that Hultze threw a malevolent scowl their way while making his last comment. As if wanting to avoid further recriminations, the redhead moved his horse forward. Although the second man followed, the buckskin-shirted man continued to sit motionless in the background.

  ‘That’s a fair-sized bunch of cattle,’ the redhead said. ‘Can we cut it?’

  In view of Goodnight’s statements, the suggestion bordered on being an insult. Annoyance flickered on Wardle’s face and he spoke before the bearded rancher could answer.

  ‘Colonel Goodnight’s word is good enough for me.’

  ‘Your brand lost at most a hundred head,’ the redhead answered. ‘And you would’t’ve missed them yet if I hadn’t come by hunting for the stock we’d had stolen.’

  ‘Which ranch’s that, mister?’ Dusty asked.

  Up to then the newcomers had hardly noticed Dusty. His words brought their eyes to him and Wardle in particular studied him with extra interest. However, the redhead merely raked the small Texan with a cold, insolent gaze.

  ‘The name’s Luhmere, boy. I ride for the Rocking N. Our boss missed a bunch we’d gathered and sent me ’n’ Turner here after ’em.’

  ‘Just the two of you?’ Dusty inquired.

  ‘Who’re you, Goodnight’s son?’

  ‘His nephew, mister. Your boss must have a whole heap of faith in you.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’ Luhmere growled.

  ‘Sending just the two of you after a bunch of cow thieves.’

  ‘He figured we’d be enough, sonny,’ Turner put in, ignoring the low-muttered comments from the cowhands which followed on Dusty’s statement of relationship to Goodnight. ‘We found where they’d gathered stock from these gents and passed the word about it. Then we come to get whoever was doing the stealing.’

  ‘Why come here?’ Goodnight asked.

  ‘This’s where the tracks pointed,’ Luhmere replied.

  ‘Only you didn’t stick with the tracks,’ Dusty pointed out.

  ‘That feller Scroggins there met up with us late yesterday afternoon,’ Wardle explained, indicating the man in the coonskin cap. ‘He told us that Chisum was trailing in a herd for Colonel Charlie—’

  ‘And damned if it wasn’t the same herd that we’re tracking,’ Luhmere interrupted. ‘So we come straight here, fixing to take our cattle back.’

  Cold anger flashed into Goodnight’s eyes but he held his temper. The nature of the redhead’s words formed an insult that might easily result in bloodshed. It seemed that other members of Wardle’s party saw it in that light. Shifting to more ready positions in their saddles, the cowhands waited for their employers’ guidance.

  Fortunately the ranchers were not hotheads. Wardle might be antagonistic to Goodnight’s lack of support for the Confederacy, but he had no desire to meet the other rancher in open conflict. Especially when he suspected that the big man on the paint stallion was Captain Dusty Fog, who nobody could claim had failed to give full and complete loyalty to the Confederate States. Having less cause to hate the Yankees, the other ranchers admitted that Goodnight had served Texas well during the War. So they were willing to accept his statement about the cattle as long as Tom Wardle did the same.

  ‘It ain’t that ways at all, Charlie,’ the lanky Jones announced hurriedly. ‘We allowed you’d do the right thing by us, Charlie, if Chisum’d brought our cattle here, and figured to save time by coming straight over.’

  Dusty noticed that Luhmere and Turner appeared surprised by the ranchers’ lack of activity. Letting out a snort, Luhmere looked at the men who had accompanied him. ‘Damn it to hell! We come here to get the Rocking N’s steers back and ain’t no copper-head Yankee-lover going to stop us.’

  Still Goodnight did not lose his temper. He saw the tightening of Wardle’s lips but spoke before the other rancher could make any statement.

  ‘I’ve told you that I never had the cattle from Chisum. He took them with him when he left, allowing
to turn them loose where he picked them up.’

  ‘We didn’t meet him,’ Luhmere pointed out.

  ‘Likely you would have if you’d stuck to the tracks,’ Goodnight replied.

  While the men were talking, a mulberry-colored Swinging G steer let out a bellow. Dropping its head, it charged at one of the D4S animals that approached a particularly succulent piece of grazing. Deciding from experience that discretion was better than valor, the newcomer whirled and fled. When the aggressor did not halt, the D4S steer followed a course which had frequently saved it from attack by its better-armed rivals. Spiking its tail out, it raced through the other cattle and towards the group of riders. On other occasions, men had saved it from pursuit but it could hardly have picked a worse time to appear.

  ‘Hey!’ Colburn barked, stabbing a finger in the fleeing animal’s direction. ‘That’s Sutherland’s golondrino muley. I’d know it any place. It allus runs to a rider if another steer chases it. Damned near caused a stampede doing it last fall at our round-up.’

  Chapter Eleven

  We’ve Done What We Came to Do

  ‘Chisum picked up some of Darby Sutherland’s stock!’ Hultze ejaculated, even before Colburn had finished the explanation of how he came to recognize that particular animal.

  ‘If Sutherland’s steers’re here, so’s our’n!’ Luhmere yelled.

  ‘Damned I don’t go take a look!’ Turner went on.

  Dusty cursed silently as he saw the effect Colburn’s words had on the rest of the men from Mineral Wells. Certainly the golondrino could hardly have picked a worse moment at which to be chased from the herd. Up to that point, the ranchers had been willing to accept Goodnight’s word that he had turned away Chisum and the stolen cattle. Seeing the D4S muley had aroused their suspicions, even without the two hardcases’ comments.

  All too well Dusty realized what the consequences might be if Luhmere and Turner started to ride forward. Enough of Goodnight’s hands were within hearing distance to be aware that something was wrong. So they would intervene, it being considered an insult to cut another man’s herd. That could easily bring the rest of the newcomers into the fray. In which case a bloody gun-battle might easily result and, even if the Swinging G came out victorious, the cattle were sure to stampede.