by J. T. Edson
‘Lon’s like that, modest. Reckon if your boys aren’t going to hold me, I’ll light out, Clay.’ Allison rose and held out his hand. Dusty shook it then said his goodbyes and left the camp.
The Allison brothers watched the small figure disappear. Then Ben turned to Clay, ‘I never reckoned I’d see you licked to the draw, but I seed it tonight.’
Clay Allison nodded, his face thoughtful. ‘I never allowed to see a man draw and use two guns as well as that either.’
They listened to the sound of hooves fading into the night. Jack Allison laughed. ‘That Dusty Fog sure showed us how the game should be played. I nigh on jumped clear out of my skin when that rifle went off.’
‘Yeah.’ Clay Allison had not been annoyed, but amused, at Dusty’s caution in leaving the Kid out there in the darkness. ‘Know something; he don’t need any help to handle Kliddoe and Earp both.’
Nine – Stampede
‘What’s wrong with the herd, Dusty?’ Thora asked as she watched the cattle walking past her.
‘Dry driving—and those.’ Dusty jerked his thumb towards two lean, gray shapes which flashed through the bush.
‘What were they, coyote?’
‘Wolf!’ Dusty sounded grim. ‘They’re hanging on to our flanks and waiting for a chance to pick up the stragglers.’
A week had passed since the meeting with Clay Allison; and the Rocking H herd was now getting deep into the Indian Nations. The rains of the south did not appear to have hit this far north, for water was very scarce and the cattle had been on short rations for three days. The last day had been dry driving, so the cattle were disturbed both by lack of water and the lean, big wolves which clung to the flank of the herd.
The wolf pack, with the inborn cunning of their kind, realized the cowhands couldn’t risk using guns; so they loped along the flanks of the herd, watching and waiting for a steer to drop out.
Thora watched the staggering cattle and the tired, hard-eyed men who rode by them. There was so little she could do to help them. She returned to her place on the flank, where she rode to relieve a man who was badly needed at the drag. It was the first time she had seen Dusty to speak to for two days. The trail boss was constantly on the move. At the point rode Kiowa and Billy Jack, for Mark was riding the drag. The Ysabel Kid rode a constant circle round the herd, hurling his horse at any wolf he saw and breaking the pack off, trying to scatter them without shooting.
The drag was now the key-point of the drive. Mark rode there and had not left his place for two days. He was tireless in his work here, a veritable tower of strength. The other men had each taken a turn at the drag and been relieved; but Mark stayed here, tailing up the weakened steers.
It was hard and grueling work, riding in the dust-choked rear of the herd. Now and then a steer would go down stubbornly, waiting for death. When this happened, one of the drag riders would come in, lean out of the saddle, grip the animal by the tail and haul it back to its feet.
The weaker stock were all at the rear now and the drag men kept them going, trying to stop them dropping and pushing stronger stock out of the way of the weak ones.
Through all the dust and the lung-ache it caused, Mark worked on. He did the work of three men; every other hand who rode the drag tried to keep up with him but none could.
The Ysabel Kid rode to where Dusty sat his horse, watching the herd and trying to decide how he could ease the burden on the hands at the drag. The Kid brought news that was both good, and dangerous. In one of his wolf-chasing circles he had seen, in the distance, the waters of the North Canadian river. The waters were not high just now, but they were still high enough to make trouble for the herd in its weakened state.
The biggest danger was that the herd might get scent of the water. If they once did—
Sending for Mark from the drag, Dusty held a quick conference.
‘Canadian’s ahead. Reckon you’d best take the point with Billy Jack. And send Kiowa to the drag.’
‘Sure,’ Mark agreed, ‘we’ll have to hold that ole lead steer down until he can’t but hobble. If the herd gets a smell of that water—’
‘Yeah, we’ll have us some real fun then. Happen we’re lucky, they won’t.’
Mark looked back to where Little Jackie was bringing the remuda along, and beyond to where the two wagons moved at the rear. Tarbrush came from the bed wagon and joined the youngster. Mark turned back to Dusty and said, ‘We’d best get the remuda down there and watered before we bring the herd in.’
‘Why sure, the hands are going to need fresh horses when we try to hold the cattle in. Take the point, amigo; if we can’t hold them, push them right across, then turn them at the other side. Don’t let them start a merry-go-round in the water.’
Mark knew this without being told; he knew that, although it was always desirable to get the herd milling round on land, if it ran in stampede, the same did not apply to when the cattle were in water. If the stock started to mill in the water they would close in and tighten. The loss through drowning would be terrible for there was little the hands could do to stop it.
‘Only good thing is the sun’ll be in their eyes,’ Mark pointed out. ‘That’ll hold them from going in, but it’ll give us hell when we want to get them across.’
Dusty turned and left Mark to handle the point. The trail boss rode back along the line and to the remuda. Tarbrush and Little Jackie waited for their orders. Neither had managed to get much sleep in the past few days, but both managed a grin as Dusty rode up.
‘Get the remuda up to the head of the drive,’ Dusty ordered. ‘The Canadian’s ahead and I want the horses watered ready for the hands to make a change. Keep them well to the flank of the herd.’
‘Sure will, Cap’n.’ Like most of the crew, Lil Jackie used Dusty’s Civil War rank when he gave them orders.
Tarbrush didn’t take time to speak; he flashed Dusty a salute and kicked his heels to the sides of his mule, then started the remuda swinging around the flank of the cattle and headed for the water ahead.
Dusty turned and looked back at the two wagons, which were ambling along behind the herd. Salt and Hobie each had a horse saddled ready and fastened to the side of the wagon. If they were needed to handle the cattle they would leave the two mule teams to follow and ride the horses into action. Salt had insisted the mules were watered, even at the expense of the hands. He had trained the mules well and, with them not being thirsty, could rely on them to follow the herd and not spook at all.
Just what started the trouble was never discovered. It may have been one of the wolf pack that cut in close without being seen. Perhaps the horses got either scent, or sight, of the water ahead. Whatever the cause, the result was the same. One minute the remuda was under full control, and moving at an easy half-gallop, the next they were running in full stampede and out of all control.
Dusty saw what happened. He whirled his horse and sent it racing after the remuda. Three of the cowhands came from the herd fast, all making for the remuda.
Then the cattle spooked and were off running.
‘All hands and the cook!’ Mark’s bellow rang out over the noise of the cattle. ‘Stampede!’
Salt and Hobie piled from their wagons and a’fork their horses, to go after the herd. The two-mule teams never even showed any sign that they were alone; they just walked along, following the herd.
The ground shook as the rumble of three thousand sets of racing hooves churned up the dust. Every rider joined in the mad, wild race to get to the point and help get the herd milling round. Thora was caught in the rush and rode like a master through the whirling dust.
‘Shout, Miss Thora, shout!’ a voice roared out.
She let out a wild screaming shout and, faintly over the thunder of the hooves, heard men yelling. She yelled and shouted out until her throat ached and her voice cracked. On the other side of the herd, her opposite number yelled back and listened; whilst she yelled he knew she was all right.
Every hand hurled along the l
ine, trying to get to the point. This was no easy task, for a spooked Texas longhorn could run almost as fast as a good horse.
Dusty allowed his horse to run. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw something that made him bring the cow horse whirling round and headed at a tangent. He slammed the paint into Lil Jackie’s horse knocking it staggering. The wrangler had drawn his gun. He lost it, then heard a roar of: ‘Don’t ever try and shoot—you’ll spook the herd worse.’
At the opposite side of the herd, Dude was riding fast and well on his way, when his horse put a foot into a prairie-dog hole and went down. At the first sign of the fall, Dude kicked his feet free from the stirrups and lit down rolling. Coming up, he knew he was still not out of the woods and was in trouble—bad trouble. A Texas longhorn feared a man only so long as he was a’fork a horse. One on foot was easy game and ripe for stomping.
The steer lunged out of line, long, sharp horns swinging down to hook Dude from belly to brisket. The cowhand grabbed for his gun but it had jolted loose and lay in the dust by his horse.
From out of the whirling dust a big blood bay stallion loomed, ridden by Mark Counter. Cutting in behind the steer, Mark leaned over, caught hold of its tail and heaved. The steer was thrown off balance and lit down hard. Dude felt a hand grip his collar and pull, then he was dumped across the back of Mark’s horse. The steer got up winded, and stood for a moment, shaking its head. Then it headed back into the rushing line.
Mark brought Dude clear of the herd and the cowhand yelled: ‘Let me down, Mark. Get after the herd.’
Mark dropped Dude to the ground and hurled his blood bay back after the herd. Dude was clear of the cattle but still in trouble. From behind, came the rapid patter of feet and he whirled to see a wolf coming at him.
Dude saw his revolver and knew he had no chance of getting to it in time. The wolf left the ground in a leap and then gave an anguished howl and crashed to one side. Faintly Dude heard a rifle cracking and saw a scene he would remember to the day he died.
Riding his white stallion as if he was part of it came the Ysabel Kid, his rifle cracking at the wolves. At each shot, a wolf went rolling over on the ground. It was an exhibition of marksmanship which would have been hard to equal.
The wolf pack were cutting in, trying to get at the stragglers of the herd and at the mule-teams pulling the wagons. The Kid came at them with his deadly rifle cracking. Now the herd was running, there was no reason for the Kid not to shoot. He cut down on every wolf he saw.
Dusty had dropped back behind the herd and seen Dude’s trouble. He headed for the remuda and caught one of Dude’s horses from that racing mass, then brought it back.
‘All right, Dude?’ he asked as he tossed its rope to the cowhand.
‘Likely live, Cap’n.’
‘That being the case you’d best get a’fork that hoss and get back to work.’ Dusty looked at the lamed horse. ‘Can you get your saddle out?’
Dude walked to his horse and looked down; he removed the saddle. Picking up his gun he sighed, shook his head, then shot the horse. Saddling the mount Dusty had brought, Dude called: ‘Tell Mark and the Kid I’ll happen buy them a drink in Dodge.’
At the point Mark and the other hands had turned the leaders of the stampede. The idea was to make the cattle mill round, the leaders getting into the center of the herd and, like a coiled spring, get tighter and tighter until at last all movement ended. The dust died away and the hands sat their horses, looking round to see if anyone was missing.
Thora rode to where Dusty and Mark sat watching the herd. Her face was pale and she was gasping for breath. ‘How bad is it?’ she managed to get out.
‘’T’warn’t nothing but a lil bitty stampede,’ Mark replied.
For once Mark wasn’t belittling the matter. The stampede as such things go, hadn’t been too bad. Mark had heard of stampedes where more than half the herd was lost. What he didn’t say was that only the superb handling of the crew prevented it from being far worse. The cattle had run for almost a mile; but they had not scattered too badly and only the weaker members of the drag had been left behind.
Dude came up, hazing several of the weaker stock ahead of him. Despite his two narrow escapes, he was as cool and collected as ever. ‘Say, Mark. Next time you hauls me across your saddle, just watch how you does it. I’ve got ideas about how time should be spent in Dodge, and you ain’t helped it none, if you follows me.’
‘I wouldn’t, not less the wind was right,’ Mark growled. He could see the smile on Thora’s face. ‘’Course, you had to be riding a company horse when you lost it.’
‘That’s me, smart.’ Dude raised his hat to Thora and headed back to help collect the rest of the drag.
Dusty made a circle of the herd and surveyed the damage. Three steers had been killed and one more had to be shot. That was a small price to pay for what might have happened if the trail hands had been less quick off their marks.
The remuda had run to the river and were now watered. The hands took turns to collect fresh mounts and, when all were a’fork fresh horses, started to move the weaker stock down to the river and water them.
When the time came to move the cattle across, there was trouble. The steers baulked and fought against being pushed into water when they could not see the other bank. Dusty sent the remuda across ahead, then drove the cattle in.
The hands closed in and helped the weaklings over, one man on each side of any steer that looked as if it might be in trouble. One steer went under in the swift water, but was hauled ashore on the end of a rope.
The rest of the herd was cut in groups of a hundred or so and brought down to the river, watered, then pushed over.
Salt managed to get his wagons over between two groups and started preparing the camp for the night.
The darkness was closing in when the last of the cattle were moved across the river and bedded down. Dusty was the last man, as always, to leave the herd.
The Ysabel Kid came over the river just as Dusty arrived. The scout was bloody and, across the rear of his saddle, were the skins of several wolves. He presented the pelts to Thora, who was sitting by the fire.
‘They’ll sell in Dodge, happen you get ole Salt to fix ’em.’
‘Thank you ’most to death,’ Salt answered dryly. ‘Whyn’t you go out and shoot a couple or so buffler and maybe a silver-tip or two, me not having nothing better to do than cure hides for you?’
Thora stretched back; she was tired but didn’t feel like going to bed just yet. ‘Well, if you’ve got nothing better to do, get on with them. The crew are fed and all you’ll do until morning is stand in front of the fire and spin windies.’
‘I hired as cook, not as skinner for some danged Injun that goes round killing everything he sees,’ Salt objected. ‘Anyways,’ he was examining the skins as he spoke, ‘they ain’t wuth a cuss, none of them.’
‘How’d a cook know that?’
The Ysabel Kid walked off before Salt could answer this.
‘Head-shot, every one of them,’ Salt grinned at Thora, ‘they’ll sell for as much as the steers we lost.’
Mark sat on his haunches and rolled a smoke. A black-sleeved arm reached over his shoulder and took it on completion. With a sigh of resignation, he rolled another, which Dusty accepted.
‘Been a fair sort of day,’ the trail boss remarked.
‘If there’s any more cigarette-rustlers round here it’ll be a worse night,’ Mark warned. ‘Don’t you pair ever buy any?’
The Kid lit his smoke, then drawled. ‘I got thinking today.’
‘That’s good, Dusty. We work and the Kid here thinks.’
‘I treats that remark with the contempt it deserves, Mr. Counter.’
‘Yeah, Mark,’ Dusty agreed. ‘First time Lon ever got round to thinking, so we’d best set back and listen to him.’
The Ysabel Kid took this as permission to go ahead and expound. ‘More I think about it, the more I reckon that hombre with the three-hoss string is a K
liddoe scout.’
‘I’ll give you that,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Seen any more of his sign?’
‘Not for a spell now. I allow he cut round us and looked over the C.A. herd. Smiler allowed he’d seen sign of a man with a three-hoss relay. I make it this way. He followed us until he was real sure which crossing of the Canadian we’d make, then went back to look over any other herds that were coming. Soon as he saw the C.A. he headed back round us to tell his boss.’
‘Sure,’ Mark agreed. ‘Happen he knows cattlemen, he’d want to stop well clear of C.A. I’d as soon have Kiowa or you catch me than Smiler, was I a Kliddoe man.’
‘Shucks, Smiler’s of a sweet and loving nature, most times. But he sure acts Kaddo mean when he’s riled. Which same he would be should he catch him a Kliddoe man.’
‘Know something?’ Dusty looked at the other two, ‘I’d just about forgotten ole Kliddoe. What with the rains down south, then the dry driving up here. I reckon it’s time to remember him now. We’re but three days at most from the Kansas line. It’s come time we found where Kliddoe was at.’
‘Sure,’ Mark agreed. ‘And when we find his camp, we’ll cut in on him and make him think the hawgs have jumped him.’
‘Happen we will,’ the Kid’s voice was soft, yet the other two had never heard it so latently dangerous sounding since the day he faced the second of the men who killed his father. ‘I’ve got something to show his Yankee friends, that’s so proud of their great and noble ’n’ loyal Federal hero. They’ll likely be real pleased to hear it.’
Dusty and Mark looked at their friend for a time. Both remembered other occasions when he had let slip the name of the Yankee hero, Kliddoe. Always the mentions had been made with the same soft voice, the bitter twist to the lips and that mean, savage, cold-eyed Comanche look on his face. ‘You’d best take out and find them come dawn,’ Dusty put in.
Before the Kid replied he came up, his hand twisting back round the butt of his old Dragoon gun.
‘Easy, Kid. It’s us!’ a voice yelled from the darkness.
Dude, Red Tolliver and the rest of the hands came out of the darkness. In the firelight, they all looked clean and were now wearing clothes that weren’t inch deep in trail dust.
