From Hide and Horn (A Floating Outfit Book Number 5) (15 page)

‘
Damn it!’ Goodnight
growled,
sotto voce
to Dusty. ‘He’s seen Buffalo and allows that’ll be the
wohaw he takes from us.’

For his part, Dusty had already
identified the brave as Apache’s Scalp, a
tuivitsi
approaching the status of
tehnap.
He had been the man
who directed the
Comancheros
to the camp, and had returned with his companions shortly
before the party set out to meet the herd that morning. The small
Texan had liked little he had seen of Apache’s Scalp so far; and
the suggestion did nothing to change his feelings.

‘
The hell he does!’ Dusty breathed. ‘I
can’t see the crew parting with ole Buffalo, can you?’

‘
No,’ admitted Goodnight. ‘We’d best
see what the Kid has to say about it.’

Since assuming its post as lead steer,
Buffalo had become very popular with the crew. Calm, intelligent,
with none of the vicious traits which so many of its kind
possessed, Buffalo had led the herd and proved invaluable. Losing
it, even if the trail hands allowed that to happen, would mean that
the rest of the cattle would be disturbed until a new leader
asserted itself. So Dusty knew that they faced a tricky situation
and started to think how it might be averted.

Going to where the right flank’s
party waited,
Pinedapoi
saw the repeating rifles held by some of its members. The
Kid had one of them work the lever of his Spencer carbine to eject
bullets, then display the remainder of its load by opening the
magazine in its butt. However, having examined Leon’s weapon, the
chief already knew that it would be capable of a rate of fire
almost as fast as that of the Henry. With the first inspection
over, they rode on in the direction of the wagons and remuda in its
rope corral.

Following the orders delivered by Billy Jack,
Red Blaze had all his party formed up before the wagons. In the
rear of the men stood Barbe, wearing a more demure dress than on
her arrival, and Dawn, gripping her shotgun. De Martin was at Red’s
right side, holding a Sharps breech-loading rifle. To Red’s left,
Heenan had his right hand thumb-hooked close to the butt of his
revolver.

‘
What’s that stinking red varmint
want?’ Heenan demanded.

‘
Don’t ask me,’ Red replied, Spencer
carbine hanging at arm’s length in both hands. ‘All of you mind
what I say. No shooting unless I give the word.’

‘
Some
of us might be a
mite choosier’n you about having stinking Injuns rub hoss-droppings
in our faces,’ Heenan growled. ‘If it’d’ve been me, I’d’ve started
throwing lead as soon as they come into range.’

‘
You’re not handling
things,
hombre,’
Red reminded him. ‘So you just stand fast and do like I
told you.’

‘
I’ll think on it,’ Heenan promised,
his hand crawling around towards and fingers gripping the Colt’s
butt.

Alert for any trouble, Red had been watching
Heenan from the corner of his eye. Suddenly he swung his arms
forward and propelled the carbine around so that its metal-shod
butt crashed with some force into Heenan’s groin. With a croaking
yelp, the man removed his hand hurriedly from the Colt and clutched
at the stricken area. Buckling at the knees, he collapsed to the
ground where he lay moaning in agony.

‘
You just stay down
there,’ Red ordered. ‘If you didn’t mean to draw,
I’
ll
apologize most humble later on.’

‘
What’s the idea?’ de
Martin hissed, staring at the writhing
hardcase.

‘
If that damned fool’d
pulled and started shooting, we’d be up to our knees
from
the neck down with riledup Comanches,’ Red answered.
‘Which, with your sister along, I don’t reckon you’d want to
happen.’

If the chief had noticed the
incident—and he could hardly have missed it—he regarded Red’s
actions as a sign of good faith. After studying the various
weapons,
Pinedapoi
passed on in the direction of the third and final party.
Pushing away from the wagon against which she had been standing,
Barbe stormed up to Red.

‘
Why did you hit him?’ she
hissed.

‘
To stop
him getting us all killed, ma’am,’ Red replied. ‘It seemed like a
good thing to do at the time—and still does.’

‘
Mr. Blaze acted correctly, my dear,’
de Martin went on. ‘Heenan acted in a foolish manner and might have
endangered all our lives.’

‘
Get him to the wagon, two of you,’ Red
ordered. ‘And tell him if he’s any complaints to come and see
me.’

Although the message was delivered, Heenan
declined the offer. He scowled whenever he saw Red, but made no
attempt at taking reprisals.

After seeing the number of men
armed with repeating rifles or carbines,
Pinedapoi
realized the wisdom of accepting the
‘good heart’ gifts. The main body of the
Yamparikuh
band had split into a number of
family or clan groups and scattered in search of horses and
hunting. Any force less than the band’s full fighting strength
would meet crippling losses or be completely wiped out facing so
many guns-which-fire-many-times in the hands of the calm, clearly
competent Texas ride-plenties. Accepting the gifts would
save
Pinedapoi
from losing face or authority when the story was told. The
Comanches admired bravery, but knew the difference between it and
life-wasting stupidity.

‘
Take our gifts and we leave the white
brother in peace!’ the chief ordered on rejoining his
men.

‘
I
want the wohaw that
looks like a buffalo,’ announced Apache’s Scalp.

‘
No!’ Dusty snapped, guessing what the
young buck was saying when he heard the word ‘wohaw’.

That was the name Indians gave to cattle,
being derived from the commands ‘Whoa’ and ‘Haw’ used by
bull-whackers to guide their draught-oxen.

‘
You won’t let us have our
gifts?’ asked
Pinedapoi,
brows knitting ominously.

‘
Not the one that looks like a
buffalo,’ Dusty replied.

At Dusty’s side, the Kid tensed slightly.
Dressed once more in his cowhand’s clothing, he looked young and
innocent—but as ready for action as a cougar crouching to
attack.

‘
Apache’s Scalp says that
he wants that wohaw,’ the chief pointed out, sounding just a touch
uneasy. ‘He has a strong
head for it.’

‘
No!’ Dusty repeated and
saw the
Yamparikuh
fingering their weapons. ‘It’s my medicine
animal.’

Instantly the hostile gestures
came to a halt. Dusty’s words had put his refusal in a light the
Indians understood. No man, especially a warrior of Magic Hands’
standing, would allow his medicine animal—a bringer of good luck—to
be taken from him. Just as the small Texan had expected, Apache’s
Scalp intended to force the issue. The
tuivitsi
was at an age when he wanted to prove
himself the toughest and boldest brave-heart ever born. Although he
had heard the story of the Devil Gun council, and about the fight
with the
Comancheros,
the young buck chose to regard both as fabrications. Such a
small man, white at that, could not be capable of a warrior’s
deeds. Combined with his natural truculence and dislike of all
palefaces, Apache’s Scalp was marching straight into the trap laid
for him by Dusty.

‘
I am going to take the
wohaw anyway!’ the
tuivitsi
announced and the Kid translated the words. He
slapped a hand on the hair dangling from his knife’s sheath and
continued, ‘Think well before you try to stop me, small white one.
This is the scalp of an Apache I wear.’

To the Comanche, taking an Apache’s scalp
ranked high among a warrior’s deeds. In the case of the savage
warriors from the desert country, the old saying, ‘Anybody can
scalp a dead man’ did not apply. A brave who killed an Apache
considered he had done very well and wanted people to be aware of
the fact.

‘
He was a deaf Apache,’ Dusty scoffed,
with the Kid for his interpreter. ‘With age in his bones and no
sight in his eyes.’

Snarling in rage, Apache’s Scalp
made as if to raise his rifle. Three-quarters of a second later, he
looked down the muzzle of Dusty’s left hand Colt and wondered how
it came to be lined on him. With his usual speed, Dusty had drawn
and cocked the gun at the other’s first hostile movement. The small
Texan sat holding the
tuivitsi’s
life in his hands.

‘
Throw
away the rifle!’ Dusty ordered.

‘
It’s for you to chose,’ the Kid warned
after delivering the command.

Slowly, with every evidence of
sullen reluctance, Apache’s Scalp flung his rifle aside. Dusty felt
a touch of relief, for he had not wished to kill the brave.
However, he knew that a
stronger lesson might be needed to settle Apache’s
Scalp and prepared to give it. Backing off his paint stallion,
Dusty holstered the Colt. Before the
tuivitsi
could decide what to do, Dusty tossed his
right leg across the saddlehorn and jumped clear of the horse.
Never taking his eyes from Apache’s Scalp, he unbuckled and removed
his gunbelt to hang it on the paint’s saddle.

‘
Tell him the
buffalo-wohaw gives me real big medicine, Lon,’ Dusty ordered. ‘So
much that I don’t need weapons to handle a
tuivitsi.
Then tell him that
if he still figures to take my medicine to come right ahead and try
it.’

Apache’s Scalp listened to the words with
growing disbelief and fury. Then he flung back his head and let out
a roaring curse.

‘
He must be Burle Willock’s kin,’ the
Kid remarked disgustedly to Goodnight as the brave sprang from his
horse. ‘That much stupidness runs in families.’

‘
Soon I have a white man’s scalp to
wrap around my war-axe!’ screeched Apache’s Scalp and snatched that
weapon from his belt.

‘
This is between the two
of them,
Chaqueta-Tigre
?’
asked
Pinedapoi.

‘
It is,’ Goodnight confirmed and raised
his voice in a bellow as he saw some of the cowhands moving
restlessly. ‘Nobody interferes. Mark. Swede. Shoot down any man who
tries to use his gun.’

‘
Reckon them Injuns’ll stay out of it?’
Willock muttered as he sat at Mark’s side.

‘
As long as we do,’ the blond giant
answered. ‘Which we’re going to, even if I have to do what Colonel
Charlie told me.’

Advancing with his war-axe ready, Apache’s
Scalp became aware of the change in his opponent. No longer did the
ride-plenty look small, but was big, powerful and dangerous. Maybe
there was truth in his words and he did gain medicine power from
the buffalo-wohaw.

Balancing lightly on the balls
of his feet, Dusty watched the Comanche closing in on him. From all
appearances, Apache’s Scalp had been well taught and handled the
war-axe efficiently. Yet Dusty also figured that the
tuivitsi
would be reckless,
proud of his skill and likely to act in a rash manner should things
go wrong.

Which was what Dusty intended would
happen.

Across and up lashed the war-axe’s blade, but
Dusty took a step to the rear and carried himself beyond the arc of
its two-foot handle. Swiftly, with little loss of momentum, the
brave reversed direction, chopping savagely across. Again he missed
as Dusty avoided the blow. Going forward with the force of it, he
was carried past the small Texan who slammed a quickly snapped
sidekick to his ribs in passing. Apache’s Scalp stumbled, caught
his balance and whirled fast as Dusty moved towards him.

Snarling in fury, the
tuivitsi
attacked. Time after
time the deadly axe, its edge as sharp as many a barber’s razor,
licked in Dusty’s direction and met only empty air. The blows
became wilder, less well timed as their maker’s rage and
frustration increased. Watching every move, Dusty figured that he
could lure his attacker into some ill-advised move and where he
could bring the fight to an end. The spectators on both sides were
getting more excited by the second. Yells of encouragement rang out
in English and Comanche, but so far neither side showed any sign of
objecting to the other’s presence. Which was one of the reasons
Dusty wanted to terminate the affair quickly.

By what seemed to be an
accident, Dusty slipped in the course of evading a slash. Out shot
the Comanche’s left hand to catch hold of Dusty’s shirt at its open
neck. With a screech of triumph, Apache’s Scalp swung up his other
hand and prepared to drive the axe into the Texan’s skull. It
seemed that nothing could save Dusty. Certainly the
tuivitsi
knew of no way in
which his intended victim might escape.

Which, unfortunately for him,
was not the sum lack of Apache’s Scalp’s knowledge. He did not know
about the small Oriental who worked in the Rio Hondo country as Ole
Devil Hardin’s personal attendant. Nobody could say what caused
Tommy Okasi to flee his native Japanese islands, for he never
mentioned the subject. No matter why he left, he brought along a
thorough education in his country’s unarmed fighting skills. More
than that, he had passed on to the smallest male member of the
Hardin-Fog-Blaze clan the secrets of
ju-jitsu
and
karate.
With such knowledge, virtually unknown outside the
Orient at that time, backing his powerful muscular development,
Dusty could deal with men of greater weight and superior strength.
The ignorance was to cost Apache’s Scalp dearly.