The Floating Outfit 10

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Salt, his assistant.’ Thora answered, ‘and myself.’

  Three faces looked at hers; it was the first and last time she ever saw them show any surprise. ‘You, ma’am?’ The Ysabel Kid sounded as if he didn’t believe his ears.

  ‘A trail drive’s no place for a woman, ma’am.’ Mark took it up. ‘It’s not even a fit place for a man, happen he’s got any sense at all.’

  Dusty didn’t speak but watched the young woman’s face as she answered them. ‘I’m the only one who can be spared. We can’t do without Salt and his assistant, but we have to. Ben doesn’t want me to go, but I can be pretty persuasive when I have to. He’s come round to my way of thinking by now. Besides’—her face was flushed—‘I have a reason for wanting to go along, a reason that I haven’t told Ben. I know a surgeon in the East who may be able to help Ben. I’ve made arrangements to meet him in Dodge and bring him home to the Rocking H.’

  ‘We could bring him for you, ma’am,’ Mark suggested.

  She shook her head. ‘Doctor Burglin wouldn’t come with you. He’s rather eccentric and thinks that cowboys aren’t to be trusted. He won’t come unless I go and fetch him myself,’

  ‘All right, ma’am—if that’s your reason, you come with us,’ Dusty drawled.

  Thora had two other reasons, but she didn’t tell them to these three young men; either one would have turned them off, she thought. She wanted to know more about what they were going to do now. ‘How many men will you need?’

  ‘About another eighteen or so,’ Dusty replied. He studied the woman’s face for a moment, seeming to be uncomfortable about something. ‘There’s one thing I want understood, ma’am. And I want it understood right from the start. Uncle Devil always taught me one thing, in everything from a Cavalry regiment to a trail drive there can’t be but one boss. There can’t be two.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You can come along with us, but I want it understood that either you or I handle the chore of trail boss. If I am it’s my duty to hire, work and fire every man we take on. If you come, you’re classed as a hand, the same as the rest. You take my orders.’

  The two looked at each other for a time. Then she drew herself up proudly. ‘Captain Fog, my father was a regular officer in the Army and I spent most of my early life in army posts. I learned the same rule as you. If you are the trail boss I will take your orders.’

  Grins flickered on three tanned faces. Mark held out a hand the size of a ham. ‘You’ll do, ma’am.’

  ‘Reckon you will,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Now we’ll get the trail crew rounded up. We’ve got a whole heap of miles to cover, ma’am, and ‘Captain’ sounds real formal, I’m Dusty, this is Mark and Lon.’

  ‘And I’m Thora to my friends,’ She felt warmer towards the three men now.

  ‘Mark, you’n Lon head down to the shanties and roust out a man for night-hawk. Pass the word as you go along.’

  The two men stepped forward obediently and Dusty moved so that he had his back to the wall. He took a chair and sat in it, leaning against the wall.

  ‘How will you get the eighteen men we need?’ asked Thora.

  ‘Hire them.’

  ‘But do you know that many men in town?’

  ‘Likely know some. We’ll get all we want.’

  Thora sat back, she wondered how Dusty would set about hiring strangers for a difficult business like trail driving. She didn’t want him to think she doubted him, so she changed the subject. ‘How long have you three been together?’

  ‘Since just after the war. We teamed up in Mexico and, when we came north, decided to stick together. Uncle Devil took us on as a floating outfit and we’ve been riding for him since then.’

  ‘Floating outfit?’ She looked puzzled. ‘We don’t have one. What do you do?’

  ‘Work round the spread until winter, then head out for the back country. There’s five of us and a cook, riding greasy sack most of the time.’

  ‘Greasy sack?’

  ‘Sure, we take our food along in sacks on a mule, instead of with a wagon. Call it trailing a long-eared chuck wagon down our way.’

  Thora relapsed into silence and watched Mark and the Kid entering a saloon. They soon came out and Thora went on talking, ‘Lon, the Kid, is he as dangerous as he looks?’

  ‘Worse!’ There was a smile flickering on Dusty’s lips. ‘He’s the only man who scares me.’

  ‘Is he—er—is—’ She floundered to a stop, not knowing how to carry on or frame her next question.

  ‘Is he white?’ The smile had gone and the voice was cold. ‘He’s white clear through, ma’am. His paw was Irish–Kentucky, his mother Creole-Comanche—but he’s the whitest man I know, ma’am.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to insult your friend!’ That one word, ‘ma’am’ had been a warning to her. She was coming to dangerous ground. ‘I haven’t been west long enough to have any prejudice against mixed blood. My mother was French and my father Scottish. That is a mixture, too.’

  ‘Sure, Thora.’ The drawl was back, soft and easy again. ‘We’ll soon be getting our crew.’

  Thora saw that Mark and the Kid were headed towards the shanties where the colored workers of the town lived. She also saw that several cowhands were walking along the street towards the hotel. The men came along; they didn’t stop or say anything to Dusty, just walked past and then turned and went back towards the saloon once more.

  Then she saw a tall, dark man coming along the street towards the hotel. He wore a low-crowned, black Stetson and his clothes were old, untidy, yet his boots were new looking.

  His face was lean, dark and dangerous-looking. He ambled along in a slouching stride, his eyes all the time flickering round and his hands brushing the Remington revolver at his left side and the bowie knife at his right.

  She felt a sudden fear; the man looked cold and dangerous, like the pictures she had seen of Quantrill’s Raiders. He must be an outlaw the way he acted, probably a killer. To her horror, Dusty lifted his hand in greeting.

  ‘Howdy, Kiowa?’ he said, ‘You riding?’

  Three – On Choosing Hands

  The dark man halted at Dusty’s words and glanced at the girl before he replied, ‘Nope!’

  ‘Need a point man or scout—along of Mark, or ahead with the Kid. You take that?’

  ‘Yep!’

  ‘You heard the word about this herd?’

  ‘Yep!’

  Thora had been watching the dark face, which showed no expression at all that she could read. She wondered why Dusty had picked this dark, dangerous-looking man from the crowd. Of course Dusty knew him, but that meant little to her. If she had been hiring, she would have taken someone more presentable.

  ‘Wagon’s down there by the store. Throw your bedroll in and come back here.’ Dusty jerked his thumb in the direction of the Rocking H wagon as he spoke. ‘I want to light out as soon as we’ve got the rest of the crew. Who all’s in town?’

  ‘Billy Jack, Red Tolliver, Basin Jones and a few more you’ll likely know. Want for me to herd them in, happen I see ’em?’

  ‘Be right obliged.’ Dusty was getting amusement in watching the obvious disapproval on Thora’s face.

  Kiowa slouched off to collect his horse, moving like a buck Apache on the warpath. Two clean, neatly dressed young cowhands came by, both looked hard at Dusty. For a moment Thora thought they were going to ask Dusty for work, but they passed on. She felt disappointed; they were the sort of men she would have hired, not that dark man.

  A tall, gangling man was coming along the street now; she noticed him only because of the tired, miserable and careworn look on his face. She wondered if he had just had very bad news, for every line of him gave that impression.

  Once more Dusty raised a hand in greeting. ‘Howdy, Billy Jack,’ he said. ‘You riding?’

  The gangling man halted and hitched up his gunbelt as if the low-tied brace of Colt 1860 Army revolvers were a burden to him. He looked even more miserable at the thought of work being for
ced on him. ‘You say so, Cap’n.’

  ‘Point man along of Mark most of the time. You know this is the Rocking H herd, and what they’re saying about it?’

  ‘Nigh on skeers me to death.’ Billy Jack answered dolefully, his prominent Adam ’s apple jumping up and down. ‘Where at’s the wagon?’

  ‘Down there by the store. Kiowa’s trailing with us.’

  ‘That makes my day.’ Billy Jack turned and slouched about, still looking the picture of dejection.

  ‘Do you know him?’ Thora asked.

  Dusty nodded.

  ‘Then is he always like that?’ she went on.

  ‘This is one of his good days,’ Dusty replied. ‘You should have seen him the day General Robert E. Lee commended him for bravery in the field.’

  ‘Him?’ Thora gasped, her surprise making her lose her grammar for a moment.

  ‘Yes’m. Billy Jack was the best top-sergeant I ever had.’

  Thora stirred uneasily in her chair, Dusty watched her out of the corner of his eye and guessed what she was thinking. Had he planned it this way, it couldn’t have happened better, for she disapproved of his first two choices. Yet she didn’t speak; if she took this she would take any orders he gave. This was why he didn’t explain his reasons for picking them.

  Thora watched a handsome, tall young man coming towards them. He wore the dress of a cow land dandy and belted a low-tied, pearl-handled Army Colt. After passing the first two over, she doubted if Dusty would take this man. However, he raised his hand. ‘Howdy, friend! You riding?’

  The man halted. He raised his hat to Thora, then shook his head. ‘Take on, if you’ll have me.’

  ‘Point’s all filled, but we’ll take you.’

  ‘Gracias. The name’s Dude.’

  ‘Wagon’s by the store, Dude. Throw your roll in.’

  Thora watched Dude walk away and her frown deepened; it was plain to her that Dusty didn’t know the man, yet had hired him. She shook her head, it was all beyond her. The next two men Dusty hired were both well-dressed youngsters, and they also were strangers to him. Why he took them and passed over a couple who looked, to her eyes, like them, she couldn’t tell. Dusty’s next choice was an untidy-looking man who was also a stranger to Dusty. He came after two who might have been his brothers had passed by and been ignored.

  There were seventeen men hired when a thin, freckled youngster riding a sorry-looking paint came up. He halted the paint and asked. ‘You looking for a wrangler, Cap’n?’

  Dusty looked the youngster over; he was wearing cast-off clothing that had seen better days, tucked in his belt was a worn old model Navy Colt; worn though it was, the weapon was clean and cared for. ‘Sure. You reckon you can handle it?’

  ‘Sure I can,’ the boy sounded eager; ‘I been wrangler on a couple of spreads. Was going to say on a couple of drives, but I wouldn’t lie to you, Cap’n.’

  Dusty bent forward to hide his smile, then jerked a thumb to the wagon. ‘Your folks say you can go, you head down for the wagon and throw your gear in.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Ain’t got no folks, Cap’n. Comanches got them when I was a button.’

  ‘But how have you lived since then?’ Thora gasped, not having run across an Indian-orphaned waif before.

  ‘Folks took care of me ’til I was old enough to fend for myself. Then I took out and worked for a cattle spread. Got me a hoss and lit out to see some of the range.’

  ‘You eat today, boy?’ Dusty inquired, and the boy shook his head. ‘Best get a meal then, afore we head for the spread; you’ll likely be needing one—’ He stopped, the boy looked embarrassed and hung his head. Dusty pulled a couple of dollars from his pocket and said, ‘Here, it’s a spread rule that we always pay the wrangler some in advance, happen we get a good one.’

  The boy took the money eagerly. He was very hungry, but didn’t want to let his hero know how near the blanket he was. He turned his horse, muttering his thanks, and rode off towards the livery barn. There, before he went to get himself a much-needed meal, he bought the horse the first grain feed it had had in many days.

  Thora shook her head: there were many facets to this small man’s character that she didn’t know of. ‘Did you hire that boy out of pity?’

  ‘Nope, I reckon he’ll make a hand. He’ll handle the remuda all right and comes Dodge he’ll have filled out plenty on regular food. Next time he goes north he’ll be riding as a hand and, maybe in time, he’ll be riding trail boss.’ Dusty saw a familiar face and greeted another old friend. ‘Howdy Red, I’d about given you up. You riding?’

  Thora watched the final man walking towards the wagon. The men were all standing round it, some helping Salt to load the supplies. Even from the hotel, Thora could see the delight on her cook’s face and knew Salt was satisfied with the men.

  ‘That’s eighteen,’ she remarked. ‘All we need.’

  ‘Sure, now what’s worrying you about the men?’ She turned a startled face to him and then laughed. ‘You knew all along I didn’t understand how you picked the men. I still don’t. Every time I thought I had your system worked out, you spoiled it.’

  ‘There’s only one system when you’re hiring a man. Look at his boots, then at his hat, then at his hands,’ Dusty replied. ‘A good hand always buys the best boots and hat he can, no matter what the rest of his rig is like. The two who followed Kiowa along. I reckon you’d have hired them. I didn’t, they were nothing but milk-cow riders. Sure they’d got good, clean clothes, but their boots were ready-mades. A hand worth hiring buys his boots made to measure; he knows the extra money spent is worth it. Same with his hat; he buys the best JB Stetson he can afford. A cheap Woolsey might look good, but come a good rain and the brim starts to flop down. That happens when you’re riding to head a stampede in a storm, well it doesn’t happen more than once. But with a good Stetson you’re safe; it’ll hold its shape as long as you have it. You can’t wear it out; it’ll happen take on some weight with age and get so’s you can smell it across a wide room, but it’ll never lose its shape.’

  Thora saw Dusty’s point. ‘But what about their hands?’

  ‘A cowhand handles a rope. It burns calluses into his hands. That shows he’s handled a rope regular.’

  Looking down at Dusty’s hands, she saw the marks; but there were other calluses on his forefingers. ‘And the other calluses, on the fingers?’

  ‘They’re from a handling a gun.’

  ‘I see.’ She decided to study the boots and hats of the men when they rejoined Dusty. ‘But about the dark man—Kiowa, I think you called him.’

  ‘Kiowa?’ Dusty grinned. ‘I’ve known him since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. He rode for Uncle Devil’s OD Connected until the country started to get too crowded for him.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Folks started to build another town thirty miles away. He allowed that the Rio Hondo was getting worse crowded than Chicago and pulled out. But there isn’t a better hand at the point and I can’t think of three better at riding scout. If it comes to Indian savvy there’s only one man in this town who licks him.’

  ‘Then shouldn’t you have hired that one?’

  ‘Didn’t have to—it’s Lon,’ Dusty answered.

  ‘Oh!’ Thora could see that her trail boss had thought of about everything. ‘Will we have Indian trouble?’

  ‘Could have. One time you go through the Nations and you’re plumb belly-deep in them all the way. Next time, there isn’t a feather in sight, ’cepting that can whistle and fly. But one thing I do know. If we get hit by Indians it won’t be because they sneaked by Lon and Kiowa.’

  Mark and the Kid came round the corner of the saloon, followed by eight or so Negroes. Before they came to the porch, Thora had asked another of the questions which had been puzzling her. ‘But why didn’t the men just come up and ask for work, instead of just walking past?’

  ‘Men as good as Kiowa and Billy Jack don’t need to ask for work. There were a couple I know
went by, top hands both of them, but I didn’t want them. So they just walk by. If I want to hire them I ask; if I don’t, well nobody’s feelings get hurt.’

  Mark stepped up on to the porch and pointed to the Negroes. ‘All want to take on as night-hawk,’ he remarked.

  Dusty rose and went to the edge of the porch to look over the eight men, then asked each one what he could do. Seven out of the eight proudly announced their good behavior and sterling Christian ways. The eighth was a tall, lean, grinning man, wearing an old, collarless shirt and a tattered pair of Confederate army trousers.

  ‘Cap’n, sah,’ he said, pushing back his beat-up old rebel kepi. ‘I drinks, I smokes, cusses and chouses them lil ole black gals bow-legged but I can sho’ herd hosses.’

  ‘You handle a big remuda at night?’

  ‘You has it, I’ll handle it.’

  ‘Got a hoss?’

  ‘Got me’n ole mule that can see in the night like a hoot-owl.’

  ‘What do we call you?’

  The black face split almost across in a grin. ‘You calls me what you likes, sah, as long as you calls me for meals good ’n’ regular !’

  One of the other Negroes snorted; he didn’t take kindly to losing a plum chore like this and sought to discredit the fortunate man. ‘Cap’n, sah. That there Tarbrush he ain’t fittin’ company for gawd-fearing folks.’

  ‘Well then.’ Dusty dipped his hand into his pocket again, ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Happen we find any of those god-fearing folks where we’re going, I’ll surely keep him well away from them.’ Taking out a coin, Dusty tossed it to the man. ‘Here, either put it in the church box, or buy the rest of the boys a drink.’

  The seven unfortunate job seekers turned and ambled off happily, headed for the shantytown saloon, to drink the gift away. Tarbrush stood and watched them go. He sighed. ‘Most wish I hadn’t been hired now,’ he remarked as he turned to go for his mule and few belongings.

  Salt returned with the rest of the crew and Thora studied each man; she found that Dusty’s three pointers in choosing hands were correct. ‘What now?’ she inquired.

  ‘I’ll take the boys in for a drink. Then we’ll light out for the Rocking H,’ Dusty replied. He turned his attention to Salt. ‘How near to ready for rolling are you?’