by J. T. Edson
Dusty looked off into the darkness to where, growing fainter all the time, he could hear the sound of horses running. ‘We’ll pull out at dawn just like we said we would. Somebody thought they could slow us down by taking the keg. They were wrong.’
‘But we can’t manage without it?’ Thora objected, having heard how important the keg was.
‘We’ll have to,’ Dusty replied. ‘Besides I sent Lon and Kiowa after the men who took it. Likely they’ll get it back, happen old Salt don’t get too much in their way.’
‘Salt?’
‘Sure. He lit out of here a’fork old Basin’s night hoss like the devil after a yearling.’ Dusty turned to where, by the light of a lantern, Dude was attending to the cook’s louse. ‘How is he?’
‘Reckon he’ll live,’ Dude answered. ‘Who’d you reckon did it?’
‘I’m reckoning, not saying.’ Dusty grinned at Thora as he replied. ‘Know one thing though. Happen Lon and Kiowa find them, they’ll surely wish they’d never done it at all.’
‘But they can’t find the men in the dark,’ Thora put in.
The same sentiments were being expressed about a mile from the ranch, where Salt finally caught up with the other two, who had stopped their horses and were seated silently. ‘Can we find them?’ Salt growled.
‘Yeah, Kid,’ Kiowa sounded dubious, ‘my Grandpappy’s kin were fair hands at reading sign, but they never tried it at night.’
‘Kiowas never was wuth a cuss at reading sign day or night,’ the Kid jeered back. ‘But us Comanches are some different. Anyways I’m not trying to read sign, I’m letting this ole Thunder hoss of mine do it.’
‘Dangnab it, if I ain’t see-rounded by Injun varmints,’ Salt cursed. ‘Get to it, damn ye, or do you want to take time out to get your war paint on. That there keg’s too dang good to be taken by any robbing skunk.’
The Ysabel Kid allowed his big white to follow the sounds which were too faint for even him or Kiowa to locate. He rode at the head of the party, sitting the horse alert and ready for instant action. The other two followed, confident that the big white stallion would not only locate the men they were after, but would also steer them clear of any ambush.
The time passed slowly, and the men rode on, only Salt being aware of the direction in which they were travelling. He began to mumble out curses as he became more sure of the direction they were taking. The Kid and Kiowa ignored him for a time. Then, drawing their horses to a halt, they studied the cook. ‘What’re you on at now?’ the Kid finally asked.
‘Toon’s spread’s down this ways. It must have been him that took the keg.’
‘Me, I figgered it was Santanta,’ Kiowa scoffed.
‘Naw, I reckoned it was ole Dingus James’d come up from Clay County just especial, that fool keg being so valuable,’ the Kid put in.
Salt spluttered in silent fury, the entire conversation having been carried out in whispers. He swore by several sacred objects that two certain Injuns would suffer for those insults to his beloved keg when they got back to the spread.
The ranch house loomed black against the surrounding darkness, a single small light showing that folk were out and about. Off from the ranch house, some half a mile away, was another larger, darker mass.
‘That’s real lucky,’ the Kid remarked, ‘he’s holding his herd right close up.’
They rode their horses nearer to the ranch, keeping to a steady walk and making as little noise as possible. The Kid halted and allowed the other two to come alongside him. The door of the house opened and a man came out, going to the buggy and the two horses which could be seen outside.
‘Let’s on Injun style,’ Kiowa remarked as the man mounted one of the horses and headed off into the darkness.
Salt too had noted the right-hand mounting of the horse and decided that a half-bred gentleman called Dan Twofeathers had best start looking for a new home real soon.
The door closed again and only the light in the window showed that Thad Toon was still not abed as befitting a man with work to do the following morning.
‘Le’s go down’n get ’em,’ Salt growled.
‘That’s real smart,’ the Kid scoffed. ‘And, afore we gets in there, they could likely bust up that fool keg and throw it on the stove.’
‘Holding their herd over that ways, we could happen—’ Kiowa began.
‘Yeah.’ The Kid had an idea; it was audacious, but, given some luck, it might work. He went on speaking rapidly, but Salt couldn’t understand a word.
The two horses started forward again and Salt spat out an angry curse as he realized he didn’t know what was happening, ‘Hey, you danged Injuns. What you fixing to do?’
The Ysabel Kid stopped his horse and twisted round, then lifted his hand in a mocking peace sign. ‘Stay right here, white brother. Keepum bad paleface inside stone wickiup.’ He paused and a wicked grin played around his lips. ‘Happen you can hit the house from up here with that rusted-up ole Beecher’s Bible.’
Looking down at his highly prized Sharp’s carbine, Salt prepared to defend its virtues. Before he could open his mouth the other two had faded into the blackness.
~*~
Sim Hogan of the Double T liked to ride night-herd; it gave him a chance to whistle without anyone asking him to stop. He was a keen and ardent whistler, though there were certain members of the Double T crew who, with no appreciation for the arts, insisted that he was out of tune most of the time. Out here, riding along one half of the sleeping herd, he could whistle to his heart’s content—for the cattle never complained and he didn’t go near enough to his pard, Kenny, to hear his views.
Halfway along the line of Sim’s patrol stood an old cottonwood tree, a very useful growth and one he much approved of. A man could ride behind the thick old trunk and, hidden from the herd, light up a smoke without risking scaring the cattle and starting a stampede.
Thinking about the use of the tree reminded Sim that it was some time since last he had a smoke. Turning his horse’s head towards the tree, he steered it under the thick branches and stopped the movement. Sim bent forward and took out his makings. He had just started to roll a smoke when, from the branch above, something lashed down and thudded on to his head. Sim slipped sideways from his saddle and fell to the ground without a sound. Before the cowhand hit the earth a dark shape dropped into the saddle of the startled horse. Strong hands gripped the reins and a soft, soothing voice stopped it from spooking.
Riding the other flank of the herd, Kenny saw a horse coming towards him. Thinking Sim wanted to talk, the cowhand rode to meet him, noting idly that the whistling was in tune at last. He grinned, then the grin froze on his face as he got an uneasy feeling all was not well here. The proof of his feeling became more clear to him as the other man rode towards him.
Sim might have learned, in a sudden and miraculous way, to whistle in tune; but he would hardly have changed his riding style to do it. Even if he had changed the way he sat a horse, he couldn’t have changed his clothing in the short time he was behind the tree.
Kenny’s hand dropped to his hip. He spoke softly, ‘Sim?’
‘Guess again!’ The soft drawled reply was backed by a sound, the sound a Colt made when it came back to full cock.
The rider was close enough in now for Kenny to see that he was a tall young man dressed all in black. In the stranger’s hand, as Kenny had rightly guessed, was a Colt. The Double T cowhand had little but contempt for old Colonel Sam’s second Hartford Dragoon model revolver, considering it both over-heavy and out of date. This contempt did not extend to open criticism when one was lined on his belly at hardly any range at all.
‘What the—?’ he began.
‘Silence is golden, friend,’ the stranger replied. ‘We wouldn’t want to go and wake up all them poor li’l ole cows, now would we?’
Before Kenny could make any reply the stranger gave a low whistle and a riderless white horse came out of the darkness, followed by a tall man riding a big buckskin. A man
Kenny thought he recognized. A man who apparently could see better than the Double T man in the dark.
‘Howdy, Kenny boy.’ It was the voice of Kiowa all right. ‘What now, Kid?’
It took Kenny a moment to realize that it was the dark boy on Sim’s horse Kiowa was addressing. ‘Take his gun,’ the Kid replied.
Kenny suffered this indignity without argument; he did not know who the dark man called Kid was, but he did know Kiowa. They had once ridden for the same brand and Kenny knew better than to fool with the dark, dangerous man called Kiowa. He noticed that although Kiowa had a rifle in his saddleboot, he also carried a second—and wondered why all the armament? He saw when the other man changed from Sim’s mount to the big white, Kiowa tossed the rifle to him.
‘Never knowed you was a rustler, Kiowa,’ he remarked as the other man striped the caps from the nipples of his gun, then dropped it back into his holster.
‘Just l’arning from the Kid here. We’ll head back and pick up your bunkie.’
Kenny stiffened as the import of the words hit him. His voice was brittle and angry, ‘Is Sim dead?’ he asked.
‘Have a lump on his head come morning,’ the Ysabel Kid replied. ‘I don’t reckon he’ll take much hurt, but it evens us for our louse.’
By the time they reached the tree, Kenny had learned about the raid and the stealing of Rocking H’s sourdough keg. As a loyal member of the Double T, he was both amused and delighted at the ingenious way his boss had attempted to slow down the Rocking H trail-herd. Then the amusement and pleasure died off as he thought of what would have happened if any of the other spread’s crew had been killed in the attempt. Kenny knew from experience of what Kiowa would have done; he didn’t think the other man would have been any less easy in extracting his revenge.
‘What you fixing in to do with us?’ he asked.
‘Waal now,’ the Kid answered, ‘we just happens to want you to take a message in to your boss.’
~*~
Inside Toon’s room at the ranch the light was still on. The keg and a full bottle of whisky stood side by side on the table. Toon was at peace with the world and he grinned at his foreman as he poured out two large drinks. ‘That went off real neat, Joel.’
‘Yeah, but comes daylight the Ysabel Kid and some of the others’ll be reading sign and coming out here.’
‘We can handle them.’ There was confidence in Toon’s tones. ‘The boys’ll fight if they have to. Rocking H can’t prove we took their keg and I sent into Granite for the law. Telled Dan Twofeathers to tell the town marshal to get out here and lend a hand. Rocking H’ll be on my land and he’ll have to turn them off. If they gets here before the law, we’ll bust their keg and burn it.’
Hendley relaxed. He looked the keg over and slapped it with a hard hand. ‘Say, let’s us hide this keg out until they’ve gone. Then we can take it north with us and leave it at Sam Snenton’s place. The Rocking H won’t never dare show their faces in Dodge again.’
Toon whooped in delight as he saw what would happen. The Rocking H would be the laughing stock of the range country, the crew who had lost their sourdough keg. Ben Holland would never hear the end of it.
‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘We’ll do just that. It’ll even us some with Ben Holland and his crew.’
‘Kid might not be able to trail us.’ Hendley’s optimism rose as he drained down the drink. ‘The wind gets up come dawn. it’ll blow the sign right off.’
‘Yeah.’ The optimism was contagious and Toon sat back with a happy beam on his face. ‘Rocking H, the crew that lost their sourdough keg!’
The rosy dreams were shattered as the door was thrown open and Kenny came in, half dragging, half carrying his pard from the night-herd.
Toon watched Kenny lay his pard on the floor and straighten up, then yelled, ‘Kenny, what the hell are you doing here, away from the herd?’
The reply came from a different source, not from Kenny. It came from the darkness outside in the sound of a wild yell.
‘Hi, Toon! Hey, Toon! You’ve got our keg in there, we’ve got your herd out here. Do we trade?’
Toon and Hendley stared at each other as if they couldn’t believe the evidence of their ears. Then Toon growled, ‘Kenny, get into the bunkhouse’n—’
‘Happen there’s any evil designs in there,’ the voice went on, ‘we got Brother Kiowa out here lined on the hawgpen door, right ready ’n’ willing to ventilate any gent who shows his fool head. Out front, ole Pastor Ballew’s got him a right true bead on the door with his rusted up ole Sharps.’
‘Leave us also remember them poor, dear, lil ole cows,’ Kiowa’s voice came to them from the rear of the building, ‘which same’re like to be up and headed to hell and gone comes shooting and you getting out of your house.’
Toon and his men knew this, even without Kiowa’s friendly reminder. Like Kiowa said, come shooting the herd would be up and running. Even if it wasn’t, Kiowa or one of the others could slip away whilst the remainder pinned down the ranch crew, it would only need one man to scatter the herd. Rocking He might be delayed by the loss of their keg, but not as much as the Double T would be. That herd would be scattered and would take some finding. It would call for another, complete round up to gather them in again and cut the road-branded stock from the other cattle.
Crossing to the window, Toon looked out. It was still some time to dawn and, in the blackness, he could see nothing of the men who were laying up out there. ‘How do we know you won’t scatter the herd when I’ve sent the keg out?’
‘You don’t,’ the comforting reply came back promptly enough. ‘But you don’t have any choice. Time you fight your way out, there won’t be any herd left.’
‘He’s right, damn him!’ Hendley spat the words out bitterly, ‘Even if the marshal gets here by dawn, they’ll have scattered the herd.’
‘Send it out, Toon.’ Even at this range, they could tell there was a harder note in the Kid’s voice. ‘We’re getting quick sick of waiting.’
‘Send your ramrod out with it,’ Kiowa’s voice went on. ‘I ain’t stampeded a herd since the last time, and that’s some too long.’
Toon stamped across the room, his face black with anger. He picked up the whisky bottle, and with a savage curse, smashed it on to the floor. Then he gripped the keg and for a wild moment, was tempted to smash it, or to empty it out. Sanity came back to him; he knew that the Rocking H men held the whip hand and that he had to give in. If he damaged, or emptied the keg, they would find out soon enough and the revenge would be small compared with the loss of his herd.
Hendley took the keg from the table, warning Kenny to keep the rest of the ranch crew quiet and not let them do anything foolish like shooting at the watchers. An idea was forming in his mind as he carried the keg to the door. Kenny opened the door and allowed the foreman to go out. He was told to shut it again and keep it shut.
It was dark now, darker than it had been all the night, as Hendley stepped off the porch and stood allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness.
A man came towards him, a dark shape emerging from the black of the night; Hendley was pleased to see it was old Salt Ballew, not either the Ysabel Kid or Kiowa. The half-formed plan was far safer now. All Hendley had to do was wait until the cook came close, then drop the keg and grab him. With the Kid, or Kiowa, that would have been deadly dangerous; but even though Salt was a tough handful, he would be easier meat.
Grinning, Hendley moved forward to meet Salt. He would show the Rocking H how the game should be played. They might be smart and have the best cards; but, shortly, they were going to lose their ace in the hole and be left sat with a dead hand.
Something touched Hendley’s back, something with a sharp point. A soft voice said, ‘Far enough, friend. Set her down.’
Hendley almost dropped the keg, his startled gasp bursting out unchecked. He let the keg fall to the ground and then stood very still. That thing sticking in his back might only be a sharpened bit of whittling w
ood, might be. It might also be, and was, eleven and a half inches of razor-sharp steel from Mr. James Black’s Arkansas forge. It was the Ysabel Kid’s bowie knife and held in a position just handy to remove his kidneys if he even blinked too hard.
Salt came up and bent over the keg. He rasped a match on his pants and, in the glare, looked it over with loving care. Hendley gulped and offered a silent prayer that his orders regarding no shooting were obeyed without question. He knew that, if anyone shot at Salt, his own life was due to come to a painful and messy end. Joel Hendley was brave enough in the face of gunmen, but that wasn’t a gun in his back. The thought of the knife going home unnerved him.
‘She all right, Salt?’ the Kid inquired.
‘She be,’ Salt sounded grim. ‘But if she hadn’t been I’d’ve surely killed you in inches, Joel Hendley.’
‘Back off, Salt,’ the Ysabel Kid warned. ‘And take that danged fool keg along with you. We’ll be long gone afore they can get after us.’
Salt grabbed the keg and departed fast. Hendley watched the cook go, then heard a fresh sound. It was the noise of a horse retreating into the night. Soon after, there was another commotion down by the corral. Once more, hoof-beats sounded. This time, of many horses. Hendley cursed under his breath as he realized what was happening. The remuda was being driven off into the open range.
‘Left you two tied, for the night-herd,’ the Kid explained. ‘Rest won’t scatter that far, I reckon.’
‘Reckon so. Thanks for the two.’
‘That’s all right,’ the Kid answered as he lifted Hendley’s gun from its holster and tossed it to one side, ‘Dusty’d want it that way. Who war it hit our cook’s louse?’
‘The breed.’ Hendley was wondering if there was any chance of taking the Kid by surprise. The knife moved from his back and he stiffened just a little, ready to try and make a move.
‘Yield not to evil temptations, brother,’ that soft voice warned. ‘It’d only get you hurt real bad. She’s still out ready.’
Hendley relaxed again. His only hope was to stall for time and wait for a chance when the Kid came to take his departure. ‘Your man hurt bad?’ he inquired.
