Goodnight's Dream (A Floating Outfit Western Book 4) (16 page)

‘
Good enough,’ the rancher agreed.
‘Only we’ll not be able to hold them here for much more than a
week. John Poe allows they were a mite restless last
night.’

‘
He reckon it was somebody making them
that way?’

‘
Nope. There were wolves howling off to
the south. We’ll have to keep them close watched from now on,
though. They don’t take to being held over-long in one place even
on good grazing.’

‘
Given just a smidgen of good Texas
luck, Mark’ll have Dawn’s folk from Mineral Wells in seven days at
most. I’ll bet that gal doesn’t give anybody a lick of peace until
she’s got the cattle headed here.’

‘
I only hope that—’ Goodnight
began.

‘
Colonel Charlie!’ a cowhand called and
pointed to the east. ‘Riders coming.’

Bringing down his raised foot, Dusty joined
his uncle in looking at the approaching men. They were about
fifteen in number, but still too far away for Dusty and the rancher
to make out details of their dress or faces.

‘
Could be the sheriff and a posse,’
Dusty remarked.

‘
Ward Kater’s not with ’em ,’ Goodnight
answered after a moment. ‘He’d be up front if he was.’

‘
They’re cowhands, mostly,’ Dusty said
as the men drew closer. ‘Could be they’ve heard about Chisum
pulling out and’re looking for work.’

By that time the riders were near enough for
Goodnight to make identifications and he shook his head.

‘
They’re not. That big feller up the
front’s Tom Wardle, runs the Bench P. Then there’s Harry Hultze of
the Double Two, Myron Colburn from the Lazy F and Mel Jones of the
Flying H. Rest of ’em look like hands from their
spreads.’

‘
All of them lost cattle to Chisum,’
Dusty breathed. ‘They friends of yours?’

‘
Not what you’d call close friends,’
Goodnight admitted. ‘Tom Wardle was took prisoner by the Yankees in
the War and worked up a real hate for them, way he was treated in
their prison-camp. That hate takes in anybody who didn’t ride for
the South. Rest of them’re his neighbors and go along with his
play.’

A frown creased Dusty’s brow as
he turned over Goodnight’s words. While a loyal Texan, his uncle
had declined to take up arms for the South. Facing the bands of
marauding Indians, Mexican
bandidos
or
Comancheros
had been every bit as dangerous as wearing the blue or gray
in defense of one’s beliefs. Unfortunately, not all who went to war
saw it in that light. Some of the returned veterans regarded
non-participants with suspicion and enmity.

There was another point to consider. All of
the men had lost cattle that should have been delivered into
Goodnight’s herd.

For some reason they had left the trail of
the stolen cattle. That reason could mean trouble for the bearded
rancher. With that in mind, Dusty gave his full attention to the
approaching party.

In the lead rode a tall, well-built man
wearing a white Jeff Davis campaign hat, open military tunic with a
major’s star on the collar and the ‘chicken-guts’ insignia of the
same rank on its sleeves. Yellow-striped cadet-gray riding breeches
and shining boots completed his clothing. A weapon belt of issue
design, except that its holster had no top, was cinched about his
lean middle. His mustached face was set in grim lines and had the
air of expecting obedience about it.

All the others wore range clothes in varying
degrees of value. The two tall, lean men and the short, thickset
rider immediately behind the military figure had the indefinable
look of employees rather than employed. Every member of the party
had at least one holstered revolver and several carried rifles
across their knees. The latter struck Dusty as being particularly
ominous. Men on a peaceful mission, or in search of help, did not
approach in such a manner.

At a sign from the military man, most of the
party halted and fanned into a fighting line. Followed by the other
three ranchers, all darting suspicious glances at the cattle, the
leader came towards Goodnight and Dusty.

‘
Howdy, Tom,’ Goodnight greeted.
‘You’re a mite off your home range.’

‘
So’s some of our cattle,’ Wardle
answered, sitting cavalry-smart in his saddle and looking from
Goodnight to Dusty. ‘Heard tell that John Chisum was bringing you a
herd. Did he get it here?’

‘
Had it outside Graham yesterday,’
Goodnight admitted.

‘
Did you check the brands before you
took the herd from him?’ demanded the lanky Myron Colburn. ‘See,
Colonel Charlie, we’ve all lost a fair slew of cattle and trailed
’em up this way.’

‘
And you reckon that I might have
stolen stock in my herd?’ Goodnight asked.

While Wardle regarded anybody who stayed at
home during the War as being a Yankee sympathizer, he had never
doubted Goodnight’s honesty. So he threw an angry glare at his
companions, then turned to Goodnight and shook his head.

‘
Nobody’s accusing you, Charlie,’
Wardle stated. ‘Only we heard Chisum was headed this way and came
over to see him.’

‘
He’s not here,’ Goodnight told the
ranchers. ‘As soon as I saw the brands on the herd, I knew he
didn’t own them and told him that I didn’t want them.’

‘
Looks like we come up here for
nothing,’ grunted the thickset Hultze. ‘I told you that we
should’ve stuck to the tracks instead of coming straight
here.’

While his uncle talked with the ranchers,
Dusty studied the rest of the men. All but three looked like
ordinary cowhands, tough, capable, loyal to the brands they rode
for. The exceptions sat just a shade away from the others. Not
much, but sufficient for a man who knew the signs to notice.

Slouching in their saddles, the trio were
tall men. One had red hair, surly features and wore a low-hanging
Colt while cradling a Spencer carbine across his right arm. The
second was black-haired, dark, broken-nosed with cruel eyes and
armed like the first. Although his companions might have passed as
cowhands, the third man certainly could not. A dirty coonskin cap
fitted over long, lank brown hair while his lean face was
bristle-stubbled. His grease-blackened buckskin shirt tucked into
blue cavalry breeches from which Indian leggings extended to the
tops of his moccasins. His belt carried a Navy Colt and a long
cavalry saber. Laying across the crook of his arm was a brass-tack
decorated Sharps rifle.

The three men sat listening to the
conversation and Dusty noticed that Hultze threw a malevolent scowl
their way while making his last comment. As if wanting to avoid
further recriminations, the redhead moved his horse forward.
Although the second man followed, the buckskin-shirted man
continued to sit motionless in the background.

‘
That’s a fair-sized bunch of cattle,’
the redhead said. ‘Can we cut it?’

In view of Goodnight’s statements, the
suggestion bordered on being an insult. Annoyance flickered on
Wardle’s face and he spoke before the bearded rancher could
answer.

‘
Colonel Goodnight’s word is good
enough for me.’

‘
Your brand lost at most a hundred
head,’ the redhead answered. ‘And you would’t’ve missed them yet if
I hadn’t come by hunting for the stock we’d had stolen.’

‘
Which ranch’s that, mister?’ Dusty
asked.

Up to then the newcomers had hardly noticed
Dusty. His words brought their eyes to him and Wardle in particular
studied him with extra interest. However, the redhead merely raked
the small Texan with a cold, insolent gaze.

‘
The name’s
Luhmere,
boy.
I ride for the Rocking N. Our boss missed a bunch we’d
gathered and sent me ’n’ Turner here after ’em.’

‘
Just the two of you?’ Dusty
inquired.

‘
Who’re you, Goodnight’s
son?’

‘
His nephew, mister. Your boss must
have a whole heap of faith in you.’

‘
How’d you mean?’ Luhmere
growled.

‘
Sending just the two of you after a
bunch of cow thieves.’

‘
He figured we’d be enough, sonny,’
Turner put in, ignoring the low-muttered comments from the cowhands
which followed on Dusty’s statement of relationship to Goodnight.
‘We found where they’d gathered stock from these gents and passed
the word about it. Then we come to get whoever was doing the
stealing.’

‘
Why come here?’ Goodnight
asked.

‘
This’s where the tracks pointed,’
Luhmere replied.

‘
Only you didn’t stick with the
tracks,’ Dusty pointed out.

‘
That feller Scroggins there met up
with us late yesterday afternoon,’ Wardle explained, indicating the
man in the coonskin cap. ‘He told us that Chisum was trailing in a
herd for Colonel Charlie—’

‘
And damned if it wasn’t the same herd
that we’re tracking,’ Luhmere interrupted. ‘So we come straight
here, fixing to take our cattle back.’

Cold anger flashed into Goodnight’s eyes but
he held his temper. The nature of the redhead’s words formed an
insult that might easily result in bloodshed. It seemed that other
members of Wardle’s party saw it in that light. Shifting to more
ready positions in their saddles, the cowhands waited for their
employers’ guidance.

Fortunately the ranchers were
not hotheads. Wardle might be antagonistic to Goodnight’s lack of
support for the Confederacy, but he had no desire to meet the other
rancher in open conflict. Especially when he suspected that
the
big
man on the paint stallion was Captain Dusty Fog, who nobody
could claim had failed to give full and complete loyalty to the
Confederate States. Having less cause to hate the Yankees, the
other ranchers admitted that Goodnight had served Texas well during
the War. So they were willing to accept his statement about the
cattle as long as Tom Wardle did the same.

‘
It ain’t that ways at all, Charlie,’
the lanky Jones announced hurriedly. ‘We allowed you’d do the right
thing by us, Charlie, if Chisum’d brought our cattle here, and
figured to save time by coming straight over.’

Dusty noticed that Luhmere and Turner
appeared surprised by the ranchers’ lack of activity. Letting out a
snort, Luhmere looked at the men who had accompanied him. ‘Damn it
to hell! We come here to get the Rocking N’s steers back and ain’t
no copper-head Yankee-lover going to stop us.’

Still Goodnight did not lose his temper. He
saw the tightening of Wardle’s lips but spoke before the other
rancher could make any statement.

‘
I’ve told you that I never had the
cattle from Chisum. He took them with him when he left, allowing to
turn them loose where he picked them up.’

‘
We didn’t meet him,’ Luhmere pointed
out.

‘
Likely you would have if you’d stuck
to the tracks,’ Goodnight replied.

While the men were talking, a
mulberry-colored Swinging G steer let out a bellow. Dropping its
head, it charged at one of the D4S animals that approached a
particularly succulent piece of grazing. Deciding from experience
that discretion was better than valor, the newcomer whirled and
fled. When the aggressor did not halt, the D4S steer followed a
course which had frequently saved it from attack by its
better-armed rivals. Spiking its tail out, it raced through the
other cattle and towards the group of riders. On other occasions,
men had saved it from pursuit but it could hardly have picked a
worse time to appear.

‘
Hey!’ Colburn barked,
stabbing a finger in the fleeing
animal’s direction. ‘That’s
Sutherland’s
golondrino
muley. I’d know it any place. It allus runs to a rider if
another steer chases it. Damned near caused a stampede doing it
last fall at our round-up.’

‘
Chisum picked up some of Darby
Sutherland’s stock!’ Hultze ejaculated, even before Colburn had
finished the explanation of how he came to recognize that
particular animal.

‘
If Sutherland’s steers’re here, so’s
our’n!’ Luhmere yelled.

‘
Damned I don’t go take a look!’ Turner
went on.

Dusty cursed silently as he saw
the effect Colburn’s words had on the rest of the men from Mineral
Wells. Certainly the
golondrino
could hardly have picked a worse moment at which
to be chased from the herd. Up to that point, the ranchers had been
willing to accept Goodnight’s word that he had turned away Chisum
and the stolen cattle. Seeing the D4S muley had aroused their
suspicions, even without the two hardcases’ comments.

All too well Dusty realized what the
consequences might be if Luhmere and Turner started to ride
forward. Enough of Goodnight’s hands were within hearing distance
to be aware that something was wrong. So they would intervene, it
being considered an insult to cut another man’s herd. That could
easily bring the rest of the newcomers into the fray. In which case
a bloody gun-battle might easily result and, even if the Swinging G
came out victorious, the cattle were sure to stampede.

On making for the herd, Luhmere and Turner
directed their horses in Dusty’s direction. Like others before and
after them, they failed to form a correct estimation of the small
Texan’s full potential. Studying the insignificant figure lounging
on the paint, Luhmere concluded that he might be provoked into a
reckless attempt at stopping them cutting the herd. Like Dusty,
Luhmere understood the danger and figured that it could be
exploited to its full advantage. Going up against that small cuss
would be a safer proposition than tangling head-on with
Goodnight.