From Hide and Horn (A Floating Outfit Book Number 5) (6 page)

There were other incidents
calling for Dusty’
s or Goodnight’s attention. In the late afternoon, they
combined to help Dawn deal with a group of extra-determined
ladinos
which broke away.
Only the girl’s deft riding-ability held the bunch together long
enough for the men to reach her. She felt no shame at needing the
assistance. Not even the most experienced top hand cowboy could
have handled the steers alone.

‘
Good work, Dawn,’ the rancher
said.

‘
Real good,’ Dusty echoed, and grinned
at the girl’s dirt-smudged features. ‘And as a reward, you can take
first spell on the night herd.’

‘
How can you stand being
so good to me?’ Dawn yelled at the small Texan’s departing back.
Then she gave a resigned sigh. ‘
It could be worse. I might have been
on the middle watch.’

Knowing the importance of
getting longhorns off their home ranges as a means of quietening
them down, Goodnight had insisted that the herd be pushed hard all
day. Wh
en he
called a halt towards sundown, they were some fifteen miles from
their starting point. After leaving the Swinging G’s holding area,
none of the trail hands had dismounted for longer than it took to
transfer a saddle to a fresh horse, or relieve the needs of nature.
At mid-day, Rowdy had taken the chuck wagon forward and handed out
cold food to the crew as they rode by, so that they could eat but
still stay on the move.

Even with the herd watered and
brought to a stop in the open area selected by Goodnight for the
night’s bed-ground, only Mark, Dawn and two of the hands rode back
to where the cook had set up camp. Until the four—first part of the
night guard—had
eaten a meal, set out their bedrolls and returned, the
remainder of the hands continued to circle the herd and quieten any
restless urges the hard-driven steers still felt. Later, when the
cattle were broken to the trail, there would normally only be two
riders at a time on night guard. Until then, and in periods of
necessity later, the number would be doubled.

When the quartet arrived to take over, the
rest of the crew trooped gratefully to the camp. Dusty went with
them, but Goodnight stayed by the herd to make sure the guard knew
their duties. First caring for their mounts, the trail hands took
and picketed their night horses ready for instant use if the need
arose. With that done, they made their way to the big main fire.
There Rowdy or Turkey supplied each man with a plate generously
loaded with thick, savory stew and cups of coffee in which a spoon
would almost stand erect.

Little was said until the plates had been
cleaned and hunger satisfied. Then the hum of conversation
arose.

‘
How do
y
ou
like being on the trail, Vern boy?’ demanded Willock in a
condescending manner, winking at his crony, Jacko.

‘
It’s great!’ the
youngster answered enthusiastically,
although he did not particularly care
for the swaggering Double Two cowhand. Then, realizing that he
sounded too eager for a man of the world, he tried to adopt a more
nonchalant tone. ‘It’s about what I figured it’d be.’

‘
Is,
huh?’ Willock
sneered, flashing a superior grin around the circle of watching and
listening men. ‘It gets sorta rough though. Unless you’ve got the
boss on hand to save you from them mean old steers.’

‘
Yeah?’ Vern flashed back,
cheeks reddening at the sniggers which rose from Willock’s friends.
‘Well I didn’t see you doing so all-fired much about
the
m
two steers that was fighting—until Cap’n Dusty come and split ’em
out for you.’

A low chuckle of laughter rose at the
response, coming from the men less close to Willock. Annoyance
twisted at the flashy cowhand’s face and he lurched to his
feet.

‘
If you’d done more
working and less sitting watching, us
men’d’ve had a heap less work to
do!’ Willock snarled, looking mean and hooking his right thumb into
his gunbelt close to the butt of the low-hanging Army Colt. ‘I
don’t take much to carrying—’

Watching the incident, Dusty
scented potential trouble. Across the fire, the D4S’s third member,
a dour, middle-aged man called Josh Narth stirred slightly as he
squat on his heels. No swaggering trouble-causer, Narth had been a
long time with the Sutherland family and could be counted on to
side with his boss’
s son. So Dusty set about nipping the discord in the
bud.

‘
All right, you pair,’ Dusty said in a
carrying voice as Vern also rose. ‘Let it drop.’

‘
What’s up?’ Willock
asked, looking to where Dusty heel-squat
ted, cradling a coffee-cup.
‘Don’t you reckon the hen-wrangler there can take a bit of
funning?’

‘
He can take it, and hand
it back,’ Dusty replied. ‘Only it’s starting to look and sound
like
you
can’t take what he gives.’

‘
Hell!’ Willock spat.
‘We’ve been car
—’

‘
The young
’n’ did all right
today,’ Red Blaze remarked. ‘He didn’t need any carrying, what I
saw of him.’

‘
Shy out of it, Red,’ Dusty ordered,
but noticed that most of the hands muttered agreement with his
cousin’s statement.

‘
Yeah, Red!’ Willock went
on viciously. ‘Shy out. Unless
you figure this D4S bunch
can’t—’

‘
That’s
another thing!’ Dusty interrupted and gave Red a glare which
prevented him from rising and carrying the matter further. ‘From
now on I don’t want to hear any more talk about the D4S, Double
Two, Bench P or any other damned kind of bunch. This drive’s going
to be hard enough with us all pulling together. So you can forget
about riding for some spread or other back to home. From here to
Fort Sumner we all belong to
this
outfit.’

‘
Them
your orders,’ Burle asked, ‘or Colonel Charlie’s?’

A low rumble of sound came from Swede Ahlen’s
throat, but he said nothing. Maybe he was segundo at the Double
Two, but on the trail drive he rated as an ordinary hand. So he sat
back and waited to see how Dusty meant to deal with the cowhand’s
insolence.

‘
Feller,
you’re
—’ Red began, again making as if to stand up.

‘
Stay put, Cousin Red,’ Dusty
ordered.

‘
Sure,
Cousin
Red,’ Willock
sneered. ‘Leave us not forget that frying-size there’s got a right
pretty sister along—’

Whatever else the cowhand intended to say was
never uttered. Tossing the dregs of his coffee into the fire, Dusty
put down the cup and came to his feet.

‘
All right,’ he said, in the soft tone
which every OD Connected cowhand came to know so well. ‘I figured
that sooner or later I’d have to prove to somebody how I got this
segundo chore for more’n just being Colonel Charlie’s nephew. So
tonight looks as good a time as any to do it.’

As Red or Billy Jack could have warned
Willock, if they had been so inclined, there were stormy times
ahead for him. When Dusty’s voice took on that gentle, almost
caressing note, it was long gone time to hunt for the
cyclone-shelter. Willock did not have their knowledge of the small
Texan’s ways, but did have his own reputation for toughness to
consider. So he stamped in gaily where angels—or as near angels as
any member of the OD Connected could be—feared to tread.

‘
So what’s that supposed to mean?’
Willock demanded truculently.

‘
Way I see it,’ Dusty replied. ‘You
figure to be wild, woolly, full of fleas and never curried below
the knees. So I’m fixing to give you a chance to prove it. Guns, or
bare hands. Whichever way you want.’

That placed the issue as
straight as anyone could ask for. Looking around, Willock read
eager expectancy on the faces
of the other Mineral Wells men. No hint of concern
for their segundo’s safety showed from the two OD Connected riders,
only complete confidence in Dusty’s ability to handle Willock’s
play no matter how he made it. That, and mocking pity at the
cowhand for his stupidity. Even as Willock watched, Billy Jack
turned and addressed Ahlen.

‘
How do you stand on this,
Swede?’

‘
He roped the hoss,’ Ahlen replied
immediately. ‘Let him ride it.’

Along with the other newcomers,
Ahlen recogni
zed some of Dusty’s potential, but wondered if all the
stories heard about his fighting prowess were true. While none of
them felt inclined to make the experiment personally, the Mineral
Wells crowd was not averse to watching Willock give it a
try.

Slowly Dusty began to walk
around the fire. Watching the other coming his way, Willock became
aware of a strange change taking place. Suddenly he found that he
faced a real
big
man, not an insignificant nobody who held post as segundo
by virtue of being Goodnight’s nephew. In some way, Dusty gave the
impression of having taken on size and heft until he towered over
the biggest of the crew.

‘
If the button
can’t
—’ Willock commenced, hoping to turn the fight to the less
dangerous Vern Sutherland.

‘
Vern’s not in it anymore,’ Dusty
warned him, continuing to advance. ‘It’s between you and
me.’

Fear bit at Willock as the small
Texan delivered the ultimatum. The cowhand became increasingly
aware that his salty reputation was strictly local and did not
extend beyond his home ranges. Dusty Fog’s name was
State
-wide
and, as Willock now realized, had been well-deserved. So Willock
wondered how he could back down, avoid the clash, without being
laughed off the drive. There was no half-way about it. Either he
ate crow or took a licking for his pains. The idea of facing Dusty
with a gun in his hand did not for an instant enter Willock’s
head.

Silence that could almost be felt had dropped
on the camp, broken only by the thumping of Dusty’s boots as he
walked. Then old Boiler Benson spoke.

‘
Hosses coming, Cap’n Fog,’ he said,
silently cursing the sound as it would most likely prevent Willock
receiving a badly-needed lesson in manners. ‘Not from the herd,
along our back trail.’

Immediately he heard the words, Dusty laid
aside all his thoughts on Willock’s redemption. With Goodnight
still at the herd, it fell on the segundo to prepare for meeting
and dealing with unexpected, possibly unwelcome visitors. So Dusty
turned from the cowhand, ready to rattle out orders.

For his part, Willock let out a sigh of
relief. He decided that he owed the approaching riders a vote of
thanks, no matter what brought them to the herd. In another five
seconds, he would have been forced to make a hateful decision and
either way he had gone would have been unpleasant. So he listened
to the approaching hooves and mentally raised his hat.

‘
Come all you
fellers,

You cowhands from
Texas,

Bring on your
young ladies and
gather around,

I’ll tell you a story so sad and so
gory,

Of how Ju
an Ortega got put under
ground.

Ole Juan was a rowdy who never looked
dowdy,

He dressed caballero and died in his
boots,

Though his past was real
sha
dy,

He loved but one
lady,

Her love caused the death of
this king of owlhoots!
”

Getting ready to leap to
their
big
segundo’s orders, the trail hands settled down when a
pleasant tenor voice lifted over the sound of the hoofbeats.
Clearly whoever came did not intend to surprise the camp. Dusty
relaxed before the end of the first line, as did Red and Billy
Jack, for they had identified the singer’s voice.

‘
It’s Lon,’ Dusty told the
old-timer.

‘
That’s
the Ysabel Kid,’ Solly Sodak of the Lazy F said, wanting to air his
superior knowledge to the man at his side. ‘He sure sings
purty.’

Satisfied that he had given notice of his
coming, the Kid did not continue with the ‘so sad and so gory’
story of Juan Ortega. Looking through the darkness, the men by the
fire soon made out enough to solve the matter of the multiple
hoofbeats. Though he was alone, the Kid had four horses trailing
after him with their hackamore reins tied to his mount’s
saddlehorn.

Sitting afork his magnificent,
huge white stallion—which, despite its saddle and bridle, looked as
wild as any free-ranging mustang—the Kid rode into the light of the
flames before stopping. Swinging his right leg up and across the
saddlehorn,
he dropped lightly to the ground. In his right hand he
gripped the new type of Henry rifle—soon to achieve fame as the
Winchester Model of 1866, or the ‘old yellowboy’ by virtue of its
brass frame—given to him while helping Dusty in Mexico. An
improvement on the original Henry, the rifle was much admired and
several of the Swinging G’s men swore they would save sufficient
money from their end-of-trail pay to purchase similar
weapons.