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

  ‘Happen I get to feel that way, I’ll find me a tall tree and bang my head again’ it to knock my brains back in,’ Ahlen grinned. Then he became sober and continued, ‘Say, Dusty. Burle Willock’s got a big mouth, but he’s a good hand.’

  ‘If he wasn’t, I don’t figure you’d’ve brought him along,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘Yeah. Waal, I had me a li’l talk with him afore I come out here and I don’t reckon, what he said back, he’ll give you any more lip or fuss.’

  ‘That’s all I ask. I don’t like billing in on things like that tonight, but it had to be stopped. Young Vera Sutherland’s aiming to prove how he’s a man-grown on the drive and I’d hate like hell to see him get pushed so that he acted loco trying to do it.’

  ‘Burle was more’n a mite rough on him, and hadn’t any call to talk about having to carry him. Vern did all right today. Damn it though, I’ve just now remembered—’

  ‘What’s up?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘Burle figures to be a real ladies’ man,’ Ahlen answered. ‘He got into some fuss with Darby Sutherland over making up to Dawn the wrong way. Darby licked him good and he’s a bad forgetter.’

  ‘He’d better forget until this drive’s over,’ Dusty warned. ‘How d’you stand if I have to pick up his toes, Swede?’

  Ahlen knew what Dusty meant. Generally the term was used to describe the punishment handed out to a remuda horse which continually broke out of the wranglers’ rope corral, or a fractious steer making trouble in a herd. Rather than have the difficult one stir up its companions, or teach them its bad habits, the boss would order one of his cowhands to pick up its toes. To do this, the man roped the animal by its forefeet, bringing it crashing down with sufficient force to knock some sense into it or break its neck. In the latter case, the boss considered the loss of the awkward one justified in that it preserved the majority’s good behavior.

  While Dusty’s intentions in Willock’s case were somewhat less drastic, his words conveyed the desired meaning to Ahlen. If Willock did not mend his ways, the small Texan intended to teach him a sharp and painful lesson.

  ‘Maybe we ride for the same brand back to home, Dusty,’ Ahlen answered soberly. ‘But if it’s to do with the working of the herd and just between you ’n’ him, he’s on his own. I know you won’t play favorites when it comes to picking up toes.’

  ‘You can count on it,’ Dusty assured him. ‘Well, I’ll be moving on to see if Billy Jack’s fell off his hoss and broke both his legs yet.’

  ‘Way he was talking coming up here, he’s figuring on that, or worse, happening any ole time,’ Ahlen replied. ‘Tell him to keep happy and cheerful.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Dusty asked. ‘Spoil his night.’

  For a moment Dusty wondered if he should tell Ahlen about the decision to cross the Staked Plains. Then he decided against doing so. Not that he distrusted the big man. Dusty knew Ahlen to be shrewd, capable, regarding him as one of the best hands in the crew and well worthy of the post of ranch foreman.

  The latter was the deciding factor in not speaking. First quality of a ranch’s foreman was the ability to put his own spread’s interest foremost on all things. Being aware of the risks involved in making the crossing, Ahlen might feel it his duty to prevent his boss’s stock being submitted to them. From what Dusty had seen, the other Mineral Wells men, with the possible exception of the D4S contingent, would follow Ahlen’s lead. The big blond could either be a calming influence, or stir them up.

  In the final analysis, the decision on whether to inform Ahlen or not lay with Goodnight. So Dusty concluded it would be best for him to go along with his uncle’s original plan. With that in mind, Dusty left Ahlen to continue patrolling and drifted on in search of Billy Jack.

  ‘Howdy, Cap’n Dusty,’ the lanky cowhand greeted, halting his doleful and even more profane chorus of the night herders’ chant as the small Texan came up. ‘Nice night, if it don’t blow up a blue-norther or twister afore morning.’

  ‘Sure,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Everything going all right?’

  ‘Up to now,’ Billy Jack answered, in a tone which expressed amazement that such should be the case. ‘Likely they’ll all’ve died off by morning.’

  ‘Happen they have, Uncle Charlie’ll likely peel your hide.’

  ‘Shucks! I knowed that I’d get blamed regardless. Did the Kid learn anything wherever he’d been?’

  ‘A mite.’

  ‘Is that Wednesbury’s partner still around, you reckon?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Dusty replied. ‘He wouldn’t get word about Wednesbury’s try failing until it was too late to hit at us on the holding ground.’

  ‘He’ll know by now,’ Billy Jack announced in gloomy satisfaction. ‘Likely got him a whole mess of hardcases coming after us by now.’

  ‘Could be,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Only Lon didn’t see any of them on his way here and he watched real good.’

  Knowing Billy Jack, Dusty did not expect him to be comforted by the news. Letting out a long, tormented sigh, the lanky cowhand waved a languid hand at the resting cattle.

  ‘This here herd’d spook real easy happen they come boiling up at us with guns a-roaring. Even if they ain’t got any of that new-fangled diney-mite with ’em.’

  ‘Don’t you let ’em do it,’ Dusty commanded.

  ‘How’d I stop ’em?’ Billy Jack wailed.

  ‘Why, look to the heavens with the light of righteous truth, brother,’ Dusty suggested, sounding like a hell-fire-and-damnation circuit-riding preacher delivering a sermon, ‘and shout, “They can’t scare me, my soul is pure!” Then charge ’em head down and horns a-hooking.’

  ‘What if they figure I’m a stinking liar?’ Billy Jack wanted to know, then he brightened up. ‘Anyways, they’d probably drop me in the first volley.’

  ‘We’ll give you a swell burying,’ Dusty promised.

  For all the light manner in which they discussed it, neither underestimated the danger. There had been at least two dudes involved in the bid to capture the Army’s beef contracts, one of whom now lay in a grave at Graham’s boot-hill. Dusty did not expect Wednesbury’s partner—or partners—to give up after the earlier setbacks, there was too much at stake for that. Those men were not interested in the welfare of Texas, but meant to carve a fortune out of the State’s misfortune and poverty. There would be other tries at stopping Goodnight reaching Fort Sumner. So the trail crew needed to maintain a constant vigilance and be ready to counter force with force should the need arise.

  At the moment Dusty gave his promise of a fine funeral, a disturbance started close to where they sat. Coming on to a resting muley, one of the steers decided to drive it away out of sheer ornery cussedness. Instantly Billy Jack dropped his mournful pose and started his horse moving. Dusty waited until sure his help would not be needed, then rode on in search of the next member of the night guard.

  Seeing the slim figure of Vern Sutherland approaching, Dusty brought his horse to a halt. There had been a slight stiffness in the youngster’s attitude to him after the incident with Willock and he could guess at its cause. A faint grin twisted at the corner of Dusty’s lips as he thought of the diverse nature of a segundo’s work. It entailed far more than merely attending to the cattle, or ordering the trail hands to perform their tasks.

  ‘Hi Vern,’ Dusty said.

  ‘Cap’n!’ Vern grunted and made as if to ride on.

  ‘Hold it. Is something up?’

  ‘Naw—Hell, yes there is. You didn’t have to bawl down Burle Willock on my account. I could’ve took him.’

  ‘I didn’t bawl him down on your account,’ Dusty corrected. ‘I made both of you quit doing something that somebody’d’ve been sorry for had it been done.’

  ‘I can handle a gun !’ Vern began hotly.

  ‘So can most folks in Texas,’ Dusty interrupted. ‘Trouble being too many of ’em only learn how to shoot, not when.’

  ‘Burle Willock don’t scare me!’

 
; ‘And you don’t scare him, so you’re even,’ Dusty replied. ‘But, happen you pair make any more fuss on this drive, I’ll make a stab at seeing if I can scare you both.’

  ‘Sure, Cap’n,’ Vern muttered, figuring that Dusty could make good his threat. ‘Only I don’t cotton to having folks ride me.’

  ‘Ride you!’ Dusty barked. ‘Did you hear the way they all rode Rowdy about his cooking?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Did he get riled?’

  ‘No. He’s only a cook—’

  ‘You try doing without him. Or wait until you’ve got a bust leg, or some other hurt,’ Dusty interrupted. ‘Then see how “only” he is. Rowdy’s as good a man as anybody on this drive. And because he is, and knows it, he takes a joke or more about his food. You’re young, Vern, the youngest hand on the drive. So you’ll get hoorawed some. But the fellers know that you’re doing a man’s work and figure you’re grown enough to take a li’l funning. Remember that next time somebody does it.’

  ‘Willock didn’t mean it funny,’ Vern protested.

  ‘Nor did you when you answered,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘Which I don’t blame you for doing it. Sure, you’ve got to stand up and not be pushed around. All I ask is that you don’t go to pushing back—afore somebody else starts.’

  ‘I’ll mind it,’ Vern said.

  ‘It’d be as well,’ Dusty replied. ‘See you around, Vern. Don’t let Billy Jack give you the miseries.’

  Continuing his tour of the night guard, Dusty knew that he had caused Vern to think. He hoped that the youngster would take his advice and steer clear of further clashes with Willock. The drive would be difficult enough without adding a feud to its problems.

  Chapter Six – The Yap-Eaters’re Tough Hombres

  With only the barest touch of dawn’s light showing, Rowdy Lincoln and his louse set to work rousing the trail hands. Already the coffeepots were steaming on the fire and the aroma of breakfast wafted to the groaning, cursing men the cook’s racket tore from the arms of sleep.

  Laying in his blankets, Vern listened to the comments hurled at Rowdy’s head and began to see more than ever the point Dusty had made to him the previous night. So the youngster decided that he would avoid being touchy or easily riled in the future. If a mere cook could take joshing of a rough kind, a cowboy who was also a trail drive hand should be able to do just as well.

  ‘Come on!’ Dusty shouted, striding towards the bed-wagon and banging his fist against the side. ‘It’s near on noon and the crew’re dying of sun-stroke waiting to put their gear away.’

  ‘Looking for somebody?’ Dawn inquired, walking from the far side of the wagon. ‘Us womenfolk’re used to getting up early.’

  Collecting their food and coffee, the trail hands stood or squatted around the fire and began to eat. They ate without the formality of washing or shaving, stowing away the hot refreshments in the knowledge that they would receive no more until the herd had been bedded down that evening.

  Having eaten, the hands dumped their plates and cups into the tub of hot water placed for that purpose. Then they rolled their blankets, secured the bundles holding their individual belongings and headed for the bed-wagon. Each hand was responsible for seeing his, or her, bedroll went into the wagon. On the first failure to do so, the cook would attend to the matter and give the owner a tongue-lashing on their next meeting for his idleness. If the offender continued to leave his bedding unrolled, the cook was within his rights to drive off and leave it.

  Already fed, the two day wranglers had collected the ‘cable’ from the bed-wagon. Taking the long, stout rope to where the nighthawk held the remuda, the two men set up a temporary corral. Supporting the cable on forked sticks spiked into the ground, they formed it into an open U shape. Into that flimsy enclosure, the nighthawk guided the horses.

  Having been taught early the futility of fighting against a rope, the horses made no attempt to break through the slender barrier. So they milled around but remained inside the U while their users came to make the first selection of the day. With the trail hands, less the four on night guard, mounted and gone, the wranglers let the night-horses join their companions. They did not start the remuda moving straight away, but waited for the night herders to return and change mounts.

  Having relieved the night watch, the fourteen remaining trail hands took up their positions and watched for Goodnight’s signal to start moving. Removing his hat, Goodnight swung it once counter-clockwise over his head, then pointed it forward above the ears of his horse. Instantly Mark and Ahlen cut loose with a deep-throated, singsong chant which, they hoped, would eventually come to be regarded as marching orders by the steers.

  ‘Ho, cattle!’ boomed the two men. ‘Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!’

  Closing in, the trail hands began the business of getting the herd on the move. There was much the same kind of confusion as on the previous day, with an additional source of concern for the crew.

  Even among the de-prided and impotent steers there was an inborn desire to lead. So, up towards the point, the largest or more aggressive of them started jockeying for position. It was a time of danger, calling for constant supervision by the swing and point riders, with powerfully muscled bodies thrusting and shoving in contests of domination.

  Led by Dusty, Billy Jack, Red, Dawn and two more hands worked their horses in among the cattle ready to halt any serious conflicts. While most of the disputes, due to the press of advancing animals from behind, ended quickly, the work was not without risks. Separating two steers about to meet head-on, Dawn had her leg pinned between the saddle and the flank of a third longhorn. Saying a few things a well-bred young lady did not usually utter, the girl slashed at the steer with her rope and it drew away. Then she turned aside the rivals by the same means. Narrowly avoiding the stab of an angry steer’s horns, Billy Jack’s horse was butted by a muley and let fly with both hooves against the offender’s jaw hard enough to make it allergic to butting for some time to come. In doing so, the horse nearly threw its rider. Recovering his balance with masterly skill, Billy Jack found fresh trouble. In passing, the steer stuck its horn up the left leg of his pants. The material tore before worse damage was done and the doleful cowhand spent the rest of the day moaning about his misfortune in having a new—well, not more than six months old—pair of levis torn to doll-rags.

  Finally one steer, a ten-year-old heavyweight with a dark brown body and head and shoulders of black seemed to be asserting its dominance over all the others. Twirling like a flash, it met the challenges of potential rivals with such force and determination that all were scared off without fighting. At last it stalked off ahead of the rest and none questioned its right to do so. Falling in on either side of the self-appointed leader, Mark and Ahlen guided it in the required direction.

  With the leadership determined, the cattle continued to move with increased ease and Dusty’s party withdrew to the sides of the lines. Riding ahead, Dusty joined his uncle as Goodnight sat on a small rise to one side of the route.

  ‘What do you reckon, Uncle Charlie?’ Dusty inquired, nodding towards the point of the herd.

  ‘I’ve seen that big cuss around. He always lived close to the house, so he’s used to folk being around him. He’s not mean, or snaky. Happen he can hold on to the lead, we’ll be all right.’

  Like all herd-dwelling animals, the longhorns tended to follow the dominant male’s directions. So a steady, well-behaved, sensible lead steer was invaluable on the trail drive. It would set the most suitable pace, obey the point riders’ instructions without fuss and hold the rest of the cattle together by the strength of its presence.

  Another day’s hard pushing saw the trail herd thirty miles from the holding ground on the Swinging G. There was some horseplay around the campfire that night, but of a harmless nature. Dusty watched Willock to see how the cowhand was accepting the bawling out. From all appearances, Willock had decided to forget it, for he made no trouble and acted pleasantly enough in Dusty’s presence. Yet he disp
layed a veiled hostility towards the entire D4S contingent, ignoring them completely. Nobody else seemed affected by Willock’s attitude, so Dusty said nothing.

  The events of the morning had prevented Dusty from suggesting to Goodnight that they should tell Ahlen of the change in their route. At nightfall, Dusty had put the matter from his mind and it was not raised.

  The start of the third day’s drive went off somewhat more smoothly and ended with the big brown and black steer even more firmly established as the leader. Due to its colour, the trail crew started to call it ‘Buffalo’ and it rapidly justified Goodnight’s faith in it. It had all the qualities needed to lead the herd, being of a tractable nature where human beings were concerned and having the size, speed and bulk to handle dissidents or challengers, without being aggressive or bullying.

  On the fourth day Goodnight allowed the pace to slacken. They were now well beyond the steers’ regular stamping grounds, which caused a sharp reduction in the desire to return. Even the ladinos began to lose their eagerness to bolt, faced with unfamiliar surroundings, and took comfort from the companionship of the mass around them. While there was still the occasional attempt to break away, they grew infrequent and were easier to deal with. ‘Lone wolves’ still prowled and circled the flanks of the herd, but the rest of the steers were gradually becoming accustomed to the trail.

  By the end of the first week, the three thousand four hundred steers left—the early stages of a drive, with an inexperienced crew, always saw losses by desertion or from other causes—had settled into as near perfect a travelling unit as any trail boss could desire. Retaining its position as lead steer, Buffalo strode at the head of a long, multi-hued line of walking beef which stretched snake-like across the range. Following Buffalo came the chief contenders for his post of honor, the biggest, strongest, most energetic of the steers.

  With each passing day, the order of seniority among the steers became more firmly established. Once on the move, they ambled along in the most convenient manner to their needs. Unless bunched together for some reason by the cowhands, they picked their own line of march as long as it was in the required direction and grazed as they walked. However, while a steer could drop back then revert to its original position, any attempt to advance beyond its station was resented and discouraged by the beasts ahead. So at any given time of the day a steer could generally be found in the same position relative to its companions. Even when thrown off the trail, stopped to allow more extensive feeding than possible on the march, or after being bedded down for the night, they would resume their positions on the drive’s continuing.