From Hide and Horn (A Floating Outfit Book Number 5) (3 page)

‘
She sure is,’ grinned Dusty Fog, also
turning his eyes in the direction of the girl.

Tall, slender, but blossoming
into full womanhood, Dawn Sutherland wore a man’s tartan shirt and
levis pants, the turned-up cuffs of which hung outside her
high-heeled riding boots in the approved cowhand fashion. On her
blonde hair, cut boyishly short before her return from Mineral
Wells, a white Confederate Army campaign hat’s brim threw a shadow
over her tanned, pretty face. About her middle was a military
gunbelt with a Cooper Navy revolver in its open-topped holster.
Dusty had cause to know that the gun was no mere decoration. If her
free-striding walk and the way she carried the heavy saddle, with a
forty-foot hard-plaited Manila rope coile
d at its horn and a twin-barreled
ten-gauge shotgun in the boot, was anything to go on, she was a
healthy, fit and strong young woman.

‘
If you think that blow-up
with Colonel Charlie just now was something to watch, you ought to
have seen the one with her pappy when she told him she was coming,’
Mark chuckled. ‘I thought that li
’l gal was fixing to whup us all,
tooth ’n’ claw, to get her way. She’ll make a hand,
Dusty.’

‘
How about the rest of
them?’ Dusty inquired, indicating a
group of ten assorted, but fairly
representative cowhands hovering in the background.

‘
They handled the herd
from Mineral Wells easy enough,’ Mark answered. ‘Which, afore you
tell me, I know it’s nothing to what’s ahead. Swede Ahlen there,’
he nodded to a big, powerfully built blond man, ‘he’s the Double
2’s segundo. Hultze and the other ranchers figured they should have
one foreman along. Swede’s not pushy and’s willing to take orders
as long as he figures the man giving
’em’s giving the right
ones.’

‘
Do the rest of them listen to
him?’

‘
Most do. Bench P, Lazy F
and Double 2 are all pards, but the Flying H and D4S get along all
right with them. Young Vern Sutherland’s a mite wild, but he’ll
likely grow out of it when she stops being his
big
sister. That
flashy-dressed, good-looking cuss’s Burle Willock from the Double
2. He’s a good hand. They all are but
he
knows it.’

‘
I’ll mind it,’ Dusty
promised.

Faced with the post of segundo, second in
command to Goodnight, on the trail drive, Dusty did not regard
Mark’s comments as snooping or a breach of confidence. With seven
ranches involved, even though four of them had sent only two men
each, he would have to stay constantly alert against inter-spread
rivalry. One of the cowhand’s prime virtues, which Dusty greatly
admired, was his loyalty to the brand for which he rode. Yet he
must persuade the trail crew to put aside thoughts of their
respective outfits and weld them into a smoothly functioning
working team as quickly as possible. Only by doing so could they
hope to complete the six hundred mile journey to Fort Sumner.

So every detail Dusty could learn about the
men and their relationship to each other would be of the greatest
help in keeping the peace and achieving unity.

Sure the drive to Fort Sumner had been
completed before, but never with such a large herd or small crew.
On his previous drives, Goodnight had used at least twenty trail
hands to handle a thousand to fifteen hundred head. Experience had
led him to believe the number was grossly excessive. Penny-pinching
did not account for the view. So many men tended to get in each
other’s way and caused confusion in an emergency. With that in
mind, Goodnight planned to deliver three thousand five hundred head
with a crew of only eighteen trail hands, his segundo, cook, cook’s
louse and three horse wranglers. If his gamble paid off, a herd and
crew of the same general size could complete the longer journey to
Kansas with a sufficient margin of profit to make the attempt
worthwhile.

Much depended on Dusty as segundo for the
drive’s success. Never a man to flinch from responsibility, he
meant to do everything in his power to see his uncle’s scheme put
through.

If Dusty and Mark studied and
discussed the Mineral Wells cowhands in a surreptitious manner, the
return scrutiny was much more frank and open. In fact, Dusty could
guess at the
thoughts uppermost in the newcomers’ minds. How did one
reconcile the Dusty Fog of legends with the actual man. Such a
reputation should go with a giant figure, capable of physically
dominating any company and of commanding appearance.

Dusty Fog stood five foot six in
his high-heeled boots. While his clothes had cost good money and
were those of a top
hand, he contrived to give them the appearance of
somebody’s cast-offs. A new black Stetson, low of crown and wide
brimmed in the Texas fashion, rode on his dusty blond head. His
face was handsome, if not exceptionally so. If one chose to look
closer, the cool gray eyes and strength of his features told the
tale of the real man within. Around his waist was a finely-built
gunbelt with a silver Confederate States Army buckle. Its carefully
designed cross-draw holsters supported two bone-handled 1860 Army
Colts. Efficient outfit though it might be, the gunbelt did nothing
to lessen the small Texan’s insignificant appearance—in times of
peace.

If Dusty Fog failed to look the part, Mark
Counter might have posed for a painting of the popular conception
of a hero. Six foot three in height, his golden blond, curly hair
and almost classically handsome features topped a truly splendid
physical development. A great spread of shoulders tapered down to a
slender waist and long, powerfully muscled legs. Decorated with a
silver concha-studded band, his costly white Stetson hinted at his
affluence. Around his throat was knotted a tight-rolled green silk
bandana. His broadcloth shirt—its sleeves hinting at the enormous
biceps under them—and levis pants had obviously been tailored to
his fit, while his boots were the best money could buy. Like Dusty,
he wore a gunbelt made by a master craftsman and supporting matched
ivory-handled Army Colts of Best Citizens Finish in the contoured
holsters.

Over the years Dusty had grown used to the
surprise people showed when meeting him for the first time. He
reckoned he could win over the newly arrived cowhands and
effectively deal with objections to one of his stature giving
orders to larger, more imposing men.

There was, however, one
disturbing element. It had been Dawn Sutherland who brought
Goodnight the first warning of the stolen cattle and received an
account of his dream to rebuild Texas’ war-shattered economy. The
idea had been that
she should return to her home near Mineral Wells and
persuade the local ranchers to send men and cattle to accompany the
Swinging G herd. However, Dawn planned to do more than act as
messenger, then sit passively in a corner while the men-folk went
off. Oldest child, she was aware of her responsibilities. A riding
accident had lamed her father and he might never recover
sufficiently to make extended journeys. Regarding her younger
brother as a mere child—he lacked two years of her nineteen—she
decided that it fell upon her to go on the drive and learn how to
handle a trail herd. Despite arguments, pleadings by her mother,
objections from her father and brother and warnings of the
difficulties her presence might cause to the male trail hands, she
had remained adamant. In the end, to Vern’s protests, her parents
had given permission for Dawn to go. Nor had Goodnight been any
more successful in dissuading her.

Dawn’s presence might raise problems. A
good-looking girl could easily stir up the unruly, lusty younger
element of the crew. However, from what he had seen, she knew how
to take care of herself and steer clear of romantic troubles. It
was still, however, something more added to Dusty’s burden at a
time when he could have done with things taken off not added.

There had been only one incident of note on
Mark’s visit to Mineral Wells. Two days before the return journey
was begun, he and the Kid had recognized a man whom they had last
seen as part of Chisum’s trail crew, with the stolen cattle. On
learning that the man had been asking questions about their
presence in town, they had discussed what should be done.
Discarding his companion’s simple, if drastic, solution, Mark had
decided on keeping the man under surveillance. So the Kid had
followed him when he left town and did not return in time to assist
on the short drive to Young County.

While Dusty approved of Mark’s decision,
being interested to know if the death of Wednesbury had ended the
threat to the drive, the Kid’s absence deprived them of his
services as a scout. He would catch up to them on the trail, having
collected a relay of horses from the D4S before setting out after
the snooper, and, fortunately, the need for his presence would be
less during the earlier days of the journey.

A stirring and change of the
Mineral Wells men’s point of interest diverted Dusty from his
thoughts. The cowhands were looking to where their trail boss had
left the main house and
stood on the edge of its porch with a sheaf of
papers in his hand.

Charles Goodnight had the build
of a Comanche warrior, middle-sized, stocky, powerfully framed but
far from clumsy. Apart from his neatly trimmed beard, his face held
some of that savage nation’s qualities in its keen, hard eyes and
impassive strength. He dressed little differently from the
cowhands, except that his vest was made from the rosette-spotted
hide of a jaguar which had foolis
hly strayed north and tried to live off
his cattle. Matched rosewood handled Army Colts rode in the
holsters of his gunbelt and he knew how to use them.

‘
The Kid’s not back yet?’ Goodnight
inquired as his nephew and Mark walked across to join
him.

‘
No, sir,’ Dusty replied. ‘He’ll follow
that feller and see who he meets if it can be done. Then he’ll come
back and catch up with us on the trail.’

‘
We shouldn’t need him for a week at
least,’ the rancher said. ‘And I’m like you, I’d like to know if
Wednesbury’s partner is still in the game. Get the hands to come
here, Dustine.’

‘
Yo!’ Dusty gave the old cavalry
response to an order.

Sensing what was in the air, big Swede Ahlen
led the other men up before Dusty had time to speak. Forming into a
rough half circle before the porch, they waited eagerly to hear
what Goodnight had to say.

‘
I
’d best make a few things clear to you,’ the rancher
announced. ‘You’ve handled herds and know what it’s all about.
Well, this drive’ll be much the same—except that it’s longer and
with more cattle than you’ve ever tried. There’s only one way we’ll
get through. By working together and obeying orders. I’ve made out
these Articles of Agreement which I want you to read and sign.
They’ll be binding from the moment you put on your signature until
the drive’s over. Binding to you and just as completely to
me.’

‘
Would you
read
’em out to us, Colonel Charlie?’ Ahlen requested, his voice
as Texan as any of the cowhands’. ‘Some of us’re a mite shy on
schooling.’

Nodding soberly, the rancher
complied. Maybe Goodnight had never served in the Army, or risen to
higher rank than sergeant with the Texas Rangers—his title being
honorary, granted in respect for his courage, integrity and
qualities of
leadership
^v
—but he had a strong
sense of responsibility to the men he hired. On his previous
drives, he had established a code of conduct for boss and crew,
setting it down in writing that all might know exactly where they
stood.

In a clear voice Goodnight began
to read the various paragraphs of the Articles. First he stated, in
plain terms all could follow, what he as trail boss undertook to
do. Then he went on to stress the importance of instant obedience
to the orders of himself or his aides, Dusty Fog as segundo, or
Mark Counter in the small Texan’s absence. While reading the duties
of the trail hands, Goodnight watched the Mineral Wells men. Nods
of agreement with the various points came from the older, steadier
listeners, showing that they at least accepted the Articles as
satisfactory. All saw the need for the ruling that hard liquor
would only be carried in the chuck
wagon and used for medicinal purposes; a
drunken cowhand being a danger to himself and menace to the safety
of the whole drive.

At last Goodnight stopped reading. Yet
something in his attitude warned the listeners that he was not
finished. Whatever came next must be real important. So they waited
in silence and he continued, but with a grimmer emphasis.

‘
If
any member of the
crew kills another, he will be tried by his companions and, if
found guilty of murder, hung on the spot—’

‘
Hung!’
repeated Burle Willock, the word bursting out in a
startled pop.

‘
I’ve never shot a man on the trail,’
the rancher replied.

Being aware of the stresses and strains to
which a trail crew found themselves subjected, Goodnight had found
the last article a stout deterrent to trouble. The threat of
hanging carried a grim finality that went far beyond that of being
shot. Only criminals, murderers, horse or cow thieves and the like
were hung. It was a death of disgrace. So the men would be inclined
to think twice and decide wisely, Goodnight hoped, when they knew
the fate awaiting them if they broke the article.