From Hide and Horn (A Floating Outfit Book Number 5) (9 page)

‘
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,
soun
ding 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.

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 responsi
ble 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
displayed 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.