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

  Helping his uncle take the signatures, Dusty became aware of a commotion at the bunkhouse. Shouts, curses, crashes and other sounds of a struggle preceded the appearance through the door of a fighting pair of cowhands. Locked together, they crashed to the ground and rolled over flailing punches at each other. Recognizing the men as Spat Bodley and Austin Hoffman, two of the Swinging G’s detachment on the drive, Dusty could guess at the cause of the trouble.

  Before Dusty could make a move to intervene, while Mark raced towards the fighters, a peacemaker came on the scene. Long experience had taught Rowdy Lincoln how to deal with such disturbances. So the well-padded, big, jovial-faced cook emerged carrying a large bucket which he up-ended over the struggling pair. The arrival of the cold, dirty water shocked the breath from the cowhands and caused them to release their grasps as they knelt facing each other. Giving them no time to recover, Mark swooped down on them. Taking hold of each cowhand by the scruff of his neck, the blond giant hoisted them erect and hurled them apart.

  ‘Quit it!’ Mark growled, looming ominously between them.

  Even a hot-head like young Austin Hoffman had sense enough to know when to surrender. Anybody who could pick up two grown men and toss them aside with such ease deserved to have his wishes respected. No less astute, Spat stood breathing heavily and glaring at his opponent.

  Coming up on the run, Dusty went by the Mineral Wells men and halted at Mark’s side to ask, ‘What started it?’

  ‘Hell!’ Austin sniffed indignantly. ‘Spat there can’t take a joke.’

  ‘Some damned joke … ’ Spat growled. ‘And if you—’

  ‘Tell it, Rowdy!’ Dusty snapped, glaring the cowhand to silence.

  ‘Boys were talking about the drive, and Austin said something about how lucky they was to have Spat along, him being such a top hand at fetching help. That was when Spat jumped him.’

  Annoyance bit at Dusty and he prepared to stamp out a potential cause of further trouble on the drive. Spat Bodley was an amiable man, most times, and a skilled trail hand. The comment which had goaded him to violence referred to his having twice been sent to collect help for companions in trouble. On the first occasion he had returned just too late to prevent Oliver Loving receiving a fatal wound. The second time, he had brought help just in time to save Dusty’s life.

  Since Loving’s death, Spat had grown increasingly touchy about mentions of his part in the affair and reacted with growing hostility to talk of his fetching help. For the first time, his objections had reached the point of physical violence. Dusty wanted to avoid any repetition. There were not enough trained trail hands on the drive for him to leave either man behind; and that, while the easy way out, would not solve Spat’s problem. So Dusty thought fast and put his decision into words.

  ‘Go and clean out the barn, Spat!’

  Normally such a menial task would have been performed by the horse-wranglers. Knowing why he had been given it, Spat went without another word. Dusty turned cold eyes to a slightly defiant Austin, but addressed his next words to the cook.

  ‘You were saying that new back-house hole wants to go down deeper, Rowdy?’

  ‘It could do with a couple of foot deeper, cap’n,’ Lincoln admitted.

  ‘Take Austin here and he’ll do it for you.’

  Shock twisted at the cowhand’s face and he gasped, ‘Me! On the blister end of a shovel. I’ll be damned—’

  ‘I’m telling you to do it!’ Dusty cut in coldly. ‘It’s that, or go ask for your time.’

  Knowing that Goodnight would support his nephew’s statement, Austin made a fast decision. Work was not easy to find in Texas, especially highly paid work like trail driving, and riding for the Swinging G carried a certain significance. It meant such a man was a cowhand of high quality. Folks would think twice before hiring a feller whom Colonel Goodnight had fired.

  Nor did Austin discount Dusty’s own part in the matter. Unlike the Mineral Wells men, he had come to know the small Texan very well. Not only had Dusty demonstrated his strange, uncanny almost, bare hand fighting skill, but two days earlier had been captured by a pair of Wednesbury’s men and escaped. Even having his hands bound behind his back had not prevented Dusty from gaining his freedom, killing one of his captors and taking the second prisoner. So Austin figured that Dusty Fog did not need the backing of any man to enforce his intentions.

  ‘I hates digging,’ Austin said, trying to carry off the affair in a light manner. ‘But I hates work-hunting worse. Lead me to it, Rowdy, and watch me make like a gopher.’

  ‘Have you any work needs doing, Rowdy?’ Dusty asked before the cook left.

  ‘Just a few things to load on the bed-wagon is all, cap’n.’

  ‘Take three of these fellers to help you,’ Dusty ordered, indicating the onlookers. ‘Swede, have half of them that’s left to help the wranglers. Mark, take the rest to spell Uncle Charlie’s men on the herd until night-fall.’

  ‘Yo!’ answered Ahlen and Mark echoed the word, then they turned to give their orders. Mark included Dawn in his party, for she was to be classed as an ordinary hand and take her share of the work.

  That evening the whole trail crew was gathered for supper when Austin came into the cook shack. No cowhand took kindly to digging and the youngster scowled unpleasantly around. Watching the expression on Austin’s face, Dusty prepared to ram home the point he wanted to make.

  ‘Do you know why I made you do it?’ Dusty asked, making sure his words carried to all the men.

  ‘For starting that fuss,’ Austin guessed.

  ‘That was only a li’l part of it. I figured you should learn how it feels to be made do something you hate doing. That’s what happened to Spat, with Oliver Loving and again with me. He didn’t leave either time because he was scared, but because he was ordered to do it. Spat hated like hell having to obey—and it was a damned sight harder thing to do than dig a backhouse hole. But he’s a good hand and he knows that orders have to be obeyed. So he did what he was told. And each time, he turned right round then came back after he’d done what he was sent to do.’

  ‘I never thought—’ Austin began.

  ‘You should try it some time,’ Dusty told him. ‘It’s easier on the hands than riding the blister end of a shovel. And the rest of you can get this. Spat’s full capable of standing up for hisself, but I don’t aim to have him doing it on this drive. The next man to mention it, even as a joke, I’ll fire and run off without pay; even if it happens while we’re driving through the gates of Fort Sumner.’

  ‘Reckon he’d be mean enough to try it, Boiler?’ Burle Willock asked the grizzled Swinging G cowhand seated at his side.

  ‘You’d best believe he’d do it,’ the old timer grunted and rose to walk away.

  ‘He talks big, don’t he, Jacko?’ Willock grinned to one of his cronies. ‘Only I noticed that he let Mark Counter stop that fight.’

  ‘Leave us not forget he’s Colonel Charlie’s nephew,’ Jacko Lefors warned.

  ‘Likely he’ll not let us forget that,’ Willock replied. ‘Thing being, how’ll he stack up on his own. Could be we’ll find out afore this here drive’s through, Jacko boy.’

  Chapter Three – It’s Just Part Of Growing Up

  Although the sun had barely peeped above the eastern horizon, Dawn left the Swinging G ranch house accompanied by Mark and Dusty’s cousin, Red Blaze. A tall, well-built young man, Red had a fiery thatch of hair, a pugnaciously handsome face and sported a bandana of such a violent clash of colors that he might have been color-blind. He wore range clothes of good cut and twin walnut-handled Army Colts hung butt forward in low cavalry-twist-draw holsters. One of the floating outfit, and Dusty’s second-in-command during the War, he had a name for hot-headed, reckless courage and a penchant for becoming involved in more than his fair share of fights. So much so that few people recognized his virtues. Dusty knew him to be steady enough when giving a job of work and willingly trusted him to carry out any task he received.

 
Maybe the hour was early, but Vern Sutherland was already sitting his tobiano gelding, a black horse with three clearly defined patches of white on its body.

  ‘Come on!’ the youngster greeted enthusiastically. ‘Time’s a-wasting. Let’s get moving.’

  A hot flush crept to Dawn’s cheeks and she snapped, ‘Climb down and stop acting loco.’

  ‘Yah!’ Vern answered hotly. ‘I don’t know why you had to come along!’

  ‘Because I figured we should have somebody in the family who knows about trailing cattle, that’s why!’ Dawn told him.

  ‘What about me, huh?’ Vern blazed. ‘I’m—’

  ‘You pair want to wake up Colonel Charlie ’n’ Dusty?’ Mark put in.

  ‘Well look at him!’ Dawn snorted, knowing the two men were awake and already preparing to leave for the herd. ‘Acting like a kid going on a Sunday-school picnic for the first time.’

  Ignoring the comment, Vern grinned at the two cowhands. ‘What say we—’

  ‘Have you fed yet?’ Mark interrupted.

  ‘Ain’t hungry!’ Vern replied.

  ‘You will be comes nightfall,’ the big blond stated. ‘Go and eat, we’re just headed there.’

  ‘Sure, Mark,’ Vern said, reining his horse around and sending it running towards the cook shack. Just before he reached the wall he turned the tobiano in a rump-scraping swing and rode back to halt before the trio. ‘How about that?’

  ‘Not bad,’ Red Blaze commented dryly. ‘Trouble being, you’ll tucker the hoss out afore we get to the herd.’

  ‘Nah!’ Vern scoffed. ‘Ole Toby here eats work. He’ll be running when the rest’re worn down to their hocks.’

  ‘Fool kid!’ Dawn snorted as her brother turned and galloped back to the cook shack. ‘Don’t pay him no never mind. He’s just trying to make out he’s a man.’

  ‘We all start out that way,’ Mark assured her and looked pointedly at Red. ‘Only some of us stay like it.’

  ‘Don’t you pair get at it again,’ Dawn groaned, for their bickering had kept her entertained the previous evening. Then she became serious. ‘Mark, Red, will you do something for me?’

  ‘If we can,’ Red promised.

  ‘Help me set Vern right.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Mark inquired.

  ‘You’ve just seen how he acts … ’ Dawn began.

  ‘It’s harmless enough,’ Mark said tolerantly. ‘We’re all excited. This’s a big thing we’re starting out to do.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ the girl started.

  ‘Now listen, Dawn gal,’ Mark interrupted her. ‘Your pappy asked me what I thought about having Vern along, and I said I reckoned he’d make a hand. I didn’t say it just to please Vern—or rile you. I meant what I said. If your pappy’s leg doesn’t get better, young Vern’ll have to grow up fast; and I reckon going on this drive’ll make him.’

  ‘He’s a fool kid—’ Red continued.

  ‘He’s only young—’ Dawn corrected hotly, bristling indignation.

  ‘Now me,’ grinned Red. ‘I thought you was the one worrying about that.’

  ‘And anyways,’ Mark went on, ‘give him time. He’ll likely grow out of it. Like I said, most of us do in the end.’

  ‘You men always stick together,’ Dawn sniffed, her good humor restored.

  ‘We have to,’ Red explained. ‘It’s the only way we can keep half-ways ahead of getting trampled underfoot by you women.’

  ‘Vern’s not wild,’ Dawn stated as they drew near the cook shack. ‘And all that talk he gives about whooping it up in saloons’s just talk. He’s not been around them anywhere nears as much as he’d have you think. Fact being, he’s only snuck in a couple of times when he’s been sure pappy wasn’t around.’

  ‘It’s just part of growing up,’ Mark replied. ‘And when you get to Vern’s age, you don’t want a bossy sister only a year older ’n’ you trying to run your life.’

  ‘I’m near on two years older!’

  ‘Sure. But try to forget it. The more you ride him, the harder he’ll set on showing the rest of us fellers that you’re wrong.’

  ‘Mark’s right on that,’ Red informed the girl. ‘I’ve got two older brothers and I didn’t cotton to them trying to run things.’

  ‘I’ll mind what you say,’ Dawn promised and they walked into the building.

  All the men present were eating heartily and appeared to be in the best of spirits. Seated near the door, tall, lanky, mournful Billy Jack of the OD Connected predicted all kinds of doom and disaster. Nobody took any notice of him, knowing it to be a sign that he felt all was well in the world. Under that dolorous exterior lay a bone-tough fighting man and skilled cowhand. One of the floating outfit, Billy Jack had been Dusty’s sergeant major in the War and appearances in his case were very deceptive.

  With the meal over, the trail crew headed for the corral. Ropes swished and hooley-ann loops vi sailed through the air to drop about the necks of the horses selected for use while moving the herd out. In very quick time, every hand had caught and saddled his horse; the hooley-ann being a roping throw designed to allow several of the crew to operate at the same time around the corral. One of the first ready was Dawn, snaking her bayo-tigre gelding from the milling crush and throwing on its rig with practiced speed.

  Already Dusty and Goodnight were riding towards the herd. Studying the steers with experienced eyes, the rancher sought for signs of restlessness. Despite the addition of the Mineral Wells stock, the assembled Swinging G animals seemed quiet enough. Goodnight’s foreman, John Poe, who would be staying in Young County to gather cattle for another drive, rode up. He told his boss that the night had been quiet and uneventful, apart from the inevitable attempts by some of the wilder cattle to regain their freedom.

  ‘You can expect that from the sort of ladinos we’ve been hauling out of the thorn-brush,’ the rancher said.

  ‘Sure,’ Poe grinned. ‘Way some of ’em act, you’d figure they didn’t want to go and feed up all them hungry Apaches in New Mexico. Anyways, none of them got away.’

  ‘I didn’t think they would,’ Goodnight replied, flashing a rare smile at his segundo and foreman. ‘Here’s my crew. We’ll move out straight away, Dustine.’

  ‘Yo!’ answered Dusty, and rode to meet the approaching party.

  For a long moment Goodnight sat silent, then he sucked in a deep breath. This was the start of what might easily be the salvation of Texas, or a fiasco. Whichever way it turned out, he felt it was well worth the try. Turning to Poe, the rancher offered his hand.

  ‘I’ll see you when I get back, John.’

  ‘Everything’ll be ready for you, Charlie,’ Poe replied as they shook hands. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Likely we’ll need it,’ Goodnight said.

  ‘All right!’ Dusty said to the trail crew. ‘Head ’em up. Let’s move ’em!’

  ‘Yeeah!’ Vern whooped, wriggling on his saddle in excitement and eagerness.

  ‘I said move ’em, not spook ’em!’ Dusty barked. ‘Hold it down and save that whooping for when we hit Fort Sumner.’

  ‘Sure, Cap’n Dusty,’ the youngster answered, face flushing with shame at the public rebuke. ‘I—’

  ‘You heard,’ Mark growled in Vern’s ear. ‘Get to it.’

  Much as Dusty would have liked to make up for the sting of his words, the chance did not arise. Along with the other hands, Vern rode to his position and made ready to start. When setting out the order in which the hands would work that day, Dusty had allocated Dawn to the swing, the forward third of the herd. Approaching her place, the girl became aware for the first time of just how many three thousand head of longhorns amounted to. She had seen gathers almost as large, during communal round-ups, but nobody had ever thought of moving so many from place to place.

  The range ahead seemed blanketed with steers of almost every imaginable animal coloration. While every bit as much creatures of a herd as buffalo or pronghorn antelope, the Texas longhorn showed none of their uniformity o
f appearance. No two steers in that vast gathering looked completely alike. Apart from the occasional muley, however, they all had one thing in common, a set of spreading, powerful and needle-sharp horns.

  Not that Dawn found time to sit in awed contemplation. Already the men were riding towards the cattle, gently urging them to move. Slowly, yet surely, the tremendous collection of steers started to walk in a westerly direction. At the point, Mark Counter and Swede Ahlen closed in on either side of the first steer ready to turn it anyway the trail boss signaled.

  Commencing the first day’s drive was always a trying time for the trail crew. So far the steers had not settled into a cohesive travelling unit. The Swinging G stock was still unsettled by the arrival of the Mineral Wells herd not thirty-six hours back. Due to the way they had been collected, vii a number of Goodnight’s contingent were ladinos, outlaws long used to free-ranging in the thorn-brush country. Given time, they might have become accustomed to herd life. Unfortunately, time was a commodity in very short supply if they were to reach Fort Sumner by the end of June. The drive had to be got on its way.

  To an unknowing onlooker, everything might have seemed to be in wild confusion. There were steers which objected to being moved from such easy grazing, or ladinos striving to return to their wild existence, demanding attention and keeping the trail hands fully occupied.

  Horses spurted, twisted, pivoted and galloped into a muck-sweat, cutting off would-be bunch-quitters and turning the departing steers back into the marching column. After the resting mass had been converted into a mobile line, there was a continuous changing of positions. The better travelers shoved their way by the slower, less fit, or plain lazy remainder. Already some of the steers, particularly those from the Mineral Wells area, had teamed up with ‘traveling partners’. Finding themselves separated, the partners would shatter the air with their bawling and try to balk against moving forward until reunited. They added to the confusion, as did the ‘lone wolves’. These steers appeared to have only one aim in life, to amble up as far as the point, cut across before the leading animals, make their way down the other flank to the drag and repeat the circle. More than one cowhand started to chase a lone wolf, thinking it was trying to escape, and retired cursing on discovering its harmless purpose.