The Floating Outfit 45

by J. T. Edson

  “Let’s ride out and see the herd, shall we?” he asked.

  Vance nodded. “Sure. I’ll take you while Birdie and the cooks throw a meal together for the hands. Are you coming, Dusty?”

  “Sure, you’ve got me puzzled, where you’re holding the cattle.”

  The Kid and Johnny rode up at that moment, dismounted and walked up to the trail boss. In something that might have been called a military brace and with his hand raised in a mocking salute the Kid asked, “You ready to hear a report of the activities of your scouts, Colonel, sir?”

  “Sure, make it fast, we want to ride out to the herd,” Stone answered.

  “They’re watching us.”

  Stone waited for a moment, but the Kid remained silent, so he grunted. “That’s a tolerable fair report.”

  “Tells us about what we already know,” Dusty went on. “They’re not going to try and hit the herd where they’ll be up against men with rifles, men who know the ground. That’s not the Apache way. They know the herd’s been gathered for shipping and they’re just waiting and watching until they know which way you’re headed before they hit.”

  “They’ll pick their time and place, when they know which direction we’re headed,” agreed Stone. “How many scouts are there, and where?”

  “Now you’ve hit a point, Stone,” replied the Kid with a grin. “Two at least, three at most. I reckon I’d got one spotted for sure and could make a fair guess where the other two are.”

  “There might only be the one, if that was all you saw,” Vance objected.

  “Sure, there might, but I didn’t see him for sure. Just finding one’s as likely as drawing a queen into the middle of a four card straight flush,” the Kid replied. “Apaches aren’t fools, Vance. Don’t you sell them short on either brains or military knowledge; that’s where the blue bellies make their mistake and it costs them lives.”

  “You’d better explain to us then, professor,” Vance replied, but he was listening attentively for all the light-hearted way in which he spoke.

  “Sure, one lone man gets bored. Gets to thinking about his squaw, or some pretty lil gal who threw a stick at him, which same means to get herself all set up to be courted kind and loving. Two or three of them on scout, they watch each other as well as what they’re scouting for and make sure there’s no sneaking away done. Likely they meet up somewhere each night and stay together, no Apache likes being alone in the dark. That’s why I conclude there’s at least two and at most three of them watching you out there.”

  “But this is fairly open country. Where would they hide?”

  “Not too close in, Vance. They could see you moving the herd from a fair piece back. But don’t go betting they’re not in close. An Apache can hide where you might reckon a jack-rabbit’d show up real plain.”

  “Could you find them, Lon?” asked Dusty. “And get rid of them?”

  “Likely, given two or three days, Johnny and Peaceful to help me and a whole lot of good luck. If we went out and started looking now, they’d just pull back and we couldn’t chase them far enough away to let you get the herd moving without their knowing it.”

  “The Apaches would be suspicious if you tried it,” Stone remarked. “We’ll pull out at dawn and play them as they fall.”

  “Which same’s the only chance we have right now,” Dusty agreed. “Let’s leave this hard-worked scout to get a meal and head out to the herd.”

  The three men took their horses once more and rode out through the gates. Vance took the lead and looked around him with some curiosity. He’d covered most of the ground ahead of him hunting or bird shooting at various times and thought he knew it well. Now he was beginning to wonder if he did know it so well after all, if three Apaches could be hiding so close, watching every move made at the ranch.

  Then Dusty saw a narrow gorge in one of the hills, an opening with a pole fence across it. Two men sat by the fence, smoking, each with a rifle across his knees and a belt full of bullets slung over his shoulders. They raised their hand in greeting, dropped from the rail and advanced to meet the three riders.

  “The herd’s in there,” Vance remarked, indicating the opening.

  On drawing closer, Dusty could see that the opening might be narrow but beyond it a wide valley was exposed to view, a valley where a fair-sized herd of cattle were grazing. A nearer approach showed that the slopes of the valley were very steep and in places had been made steeper by human hands. The area was a large blind canyon and being used as a natural and very useful corral. The cattle in the canyon were all well fed and looked healthy enough.

  “There’s a spring and a small stream in there. It goes underground at the blind end,” Vance explained a point which puzzled Dusty before the small Texan could ask about it. “I can hold up to five hundred head in here for a fortnight or so. More if I hay them down to help out the feed.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Dusty answered.

  “‘I found this canyon while hunting for wild turkeys,” Vance replied. “Saw how it could be put to use, steepened the sides where cattle might be able to get out and tried it. It works all right. How about the herd, Stone?”

  “They look fit and well enough,” Stone replied. “I’ll not go in and disturb them. You’ve got a fair head of white faces among them.”

  “It’s part of a herd I brought in with me. I hope to change the cattle all to white faces soon, they make better beef and cause less trouble than longhorns.”

  “Sure, but will they live off the country like longhorns do?” Dusty asked.

  The technical discussion lasted until they had stabled their horses and were entering the house. Vance insisted they were his guests and would stay in the front where he and his wife lived instead of bunking with the hands in the now overcrowded bunkhouse section. The invitation was also extended to Mark and the Kid, for Stone wanted to hear their view on the conditions the drive would be made under.

  With the meal over, their gunbelts and hats hanging on the pegs by the front door, the men went out to sit on the porch. Birdie, dressed now in a gingham frock, came out with a tray containing coffee pot and cups. She poured out coffee and handed the cups around, then sat on the arm of her husband’s chair and looked towards the men who were risking their lives to bring the herd in.

  “How do you figure to get the herd to Tombstone?” she asked. “And don’t tell me walking, that I know.”

  “The way we came out here. Swing up to that ford and miss the wooded country. That way we’ll be in clear land all the way. We could lose half the herd if we got into the woods, even if there was a ford and we don’t know of one.”

  “Reckon Lon could scout the woods, just in case?” Dusty asked. “We know the Apache are thinking they’ll grab the herd and the river’s their best spot.”

  “That’s for you to handle,” Stone replied. “You’re chief of scouts on this drive. I don’t like the idea of going through those woods unless we’re hide-bound forced to do it.”

  “I don’t like that gap we have to run the herd down about a day’s drive from Tombstone,” Mark put in. “I thought as we came through it’d be a good place for an ambush.”

  “Not from Apaches that close in,” objected the Kid. “I reckon if we can get the herd across the Carne River we’re clear of the Apaches. They’ll not come too close to Tombstone.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about Apaches,” Mark answered. “Rambeau’s not going to give up that easy. No Syndicate man ever does.”

  “That’s what’s puzzling me,” Dusty remarked. “I’ve heard some about the Syndicate and this sort of thing isn’t in their line at all. They run saloons, gambling houses, places like that. They don’t bother with cattle rustling, for that is what Rambeau’s play comes down to. Why’d they risk getting involved in something that could blow up in their faces and cause real trouble?”

  “The money on the herd will be a tidy sum,” Vance replied.

  “About half of their take for the day across the country
,” Dusty answered. “I reckon the Syndicate doesn’t know what Rambeau’s doing. That he and Parsons were planning a private deal. We’ll have to hope that Rambeau keeps quiet about it. The Syndicate wouldn’t want it known one of their top guns was planning to pull a deal on the side with a saloon operator.”

  “Then it might be as well if they found out,” Vance remarked.

  “That depends on how much word has got around. The Syndicate run because of their reputation for being tough. How’s it going to look to the folks who they keep down by fear if word gets out that somebody has bucked a Syndicate man’s play and shoved his face into the mud?”

  The others did not speak for a moment. Then Stone said, “They’ll make Rambeau back his play on his own and either come through or go under.”

  “He could have hired some more guns by now,” Mark pointed out. “The Syndicate won’t send him any more of their top-grade stock and he’ll be on his own, sink or drown. That’s why I reckon he’ll hit at us in that draw. It’s his first and last chance. He won’t want to risk it too far away from town and then likely wind up with Apaches riding over him. Nearer, folks might hear, then come to see what all the shooting’s about.”

  Vance Brownlow looked at the other men. They were all so calm and cool, not one of them showing the slightest apprehension at the thought of fighting their way by a horde of Apaches only to find more fighting against the guns of a power-greedy man. He felt confident that his herd would get through now. He also saw that had he been left to make the drive alone, he might have been wiped out without even knowing where he’d gone wrong.

  “Do you think we could pull out now, make a fast run for it and be gone before the scouts know what it’s all about?” he asked.

  “We could try, but I wouldn’t want to. The scouts aren’t alone, there’s a decent sized bunch somewhere, maybe two, maybe five miles away, maybe even more,” grunted the Kid. “The scouts would hear the herd being moved and they’d light out. They don’t like fighting in the dark, but they’ll move by it. They’d get to the bunch who’re near at hand, then we’d have them hit us at dawn, when the hands are all getting tired and slowed down. They’d do enough damage, run off the remuda, wreck the chuck wagon and be gone. And they’d go right to the main crowd to let them know we’re on our way.”

  The other Texans nodded their agreement. They’d all a fair knowledge of tactics and knew the Kid called his shots right true to the center of the target. The surprise moving of the herd would not remain a surprise for long and the pursuit would come faster than any herd of cattle, much less a herd of white faces, could be pushed.

  Mark opened his mouth to make some suggestion, then closed it again as he came to his feet along with the others. They all heard the distant crash of shots and Vance Brownlow’s face lost much of its color as he looked at the others.

  “The herd!” he gasped.

  “Too far off for that,” replied the Kid. “There’s a fair bunch of riders coming this way.”

  It was some moments before any of the others could even hear the sound of rapidly approaching riders. By that time the Kid could make out certain sounds which gave a clue as to who it was approached.

  “I’ll get the hands,” Vance said.

  “Don’t get all into a muck sweat,” replied the Kid. “Shod hosses, leather creaking and metal clinking. Them’s white men coming. An Apache couldn’t make so much noise even if he wanted.”

  “We’ll just get our guns afore we open the gate though,” Dusty answered.

  Guns in hand, Vance carrying a magnificent double-barreled shotgun, the men sprinted towards the gate but, despite the Kid’s warning, Dusty opened the barred slot, keeping well to one side and called, “Shout up, who are you?”

  “Open the gate!” came the answering shout, “Cavalry here!”

  Dusty threw open the gate just wide enough for one man to enter at a time, “Come ahead slow and easy,” he ordered.

  “And come with your hands empty.”

  The first man to enter was a grizzled and tough looking cavalry sergeant, riding with one hand on the reins, the other held waist high and well clear of his gun. He did not look alarmed or surprised at the caution shown by the occupants of the house.

  “Take it kind if you’d hurry, gents,” he said. “We just had a run in with a small bunch of Apaches and one of our men’s carrying lead.”

  Mark caught Dusty’s nod and opened the gates to allow a double file of blue clad, campaign hatted cavalry men to ride by him, followed by a young officer who holstered his long barreled Colt as he came through the gate.

  Sliding down from his horse, the young man looked towards the group of armed cowhands, then towards Birdie, who was coming with a lamp, then to the armed men who came pouring from the house, carrying lights with them. His face was pale and it showed signs of having been involved in the first fight. For all that he was in full control of himself as he saluted Birdie politely.

  “Good evening, ma’am, gentlemen,” he said. “We’ve just had a brush with the Apaches. One of my men caught a bullet, so when we saw your lights I came down here.”

  Birdie turned to where a young trooper was leaning forward in his saddle, a wound in his shoulder running blood down the blue tunic.

  “Get the boy off his horse,” she snapped. “Doc! Doc Leroy! Come and look at this soldier.”

  Doc came fast and the trooper was helped down from his saddle, to be taken up to the house. The young officer told his men to take care of their horses, then stood looking back through the look-out slot of the gate.

  “How many of them did you get, mister?”

  The lieutenant turned quickly, for he knew that sort of voice. It was something a green young shave tail fresh out of West Point could tell well enough, the tone of a tough officer addressing a junior. His eyes went to the small Texan who stood ahead of the others. There was something in the way Dusty stood that warned the officer his guess was not wrong. Here was a man used to asking questions and getting quick and accurate answers.

  “I believe we dropped three.”

  Dusty swung around and snapped, “Mark, get Lon’s old Thunder hoss, Lon, happen the lieutenant here’ll let you. I want you to go out with the sergeant and take a look around where they hit the Apaches.”

  “I’ll do just that,” answered the Kid and headed to the house for his gunbelt, going at a dead run.

  The young officer stood beside Dusty and looked with open admiration at the huge white stallion Mark led up. “I wish it was time of war,” he said. “The Army’s allowed to make compulsory commandeerings of remounts then, you know.”

  “I’d heard something about it,” Dusty answered dryly. “Mister, there aren’t enough men in your whole regiment to commandeer that horse from the Kid.”

  Once more the tone was there. The voice of a senior officer addressing a West Point plebe who gave unasked for information. There was more to this small man in cowhand dress than first appeared. It was with a considerable effort the officer managed to avoid stiffening to brace and making a formal apology.

  The sergeant touched his hat and requested permission to ride with the Kid and the young officer gave it. The gate was opened and the two men rode out into the night.

  “Could I night here, please?” asked the officer when Vance introduced himself. “I’m on a long sweep out of Fort Grant, checking on Apache movement. There’s been a lot and I have to swing back up to Black Falls, then make my way back to the Fort.”

  “Stay here if you like,” Vance replied. “I’m afraid we’re a bit crowded at the bunkhouse, but they’ll make out.”

  Dusty remained by the gate when the others went back to the house. He’d been standing there for a few moments when dark, then Stone asked:

  “You thinking the same way I am, Dusty?”

  “Why, sure. The time’s only eight o’clock now. We could work up a tolerable head start if things fall right.”

  They heard the sound of hooves and, although neither spo
ke, both knew the other was tense and eager to hear what the Kid had to say when he returned. The horses drew nearer and Stone opened one side of the heavy gate, then closed it behind the Kid and the sergeant.

  “Three of them,” growled the Kid, sliding from his saddle-, less white.

  “We rode into them by accident,” the sergeant went on. “Young Darcy’s all right. It’s his first time out on independent command, but he never lost his head. Got the men through, was the last to leave himself.”

  “Did you hear any Apaches getting away?” asked Dusty. The sergeant was a thirty year man, he knew a born leader when he saw one and knew that small, or tall as a redwood tree, here was a leader born, bred, raised and fully ready to lead.

  “Were just the three of them as far as I know,” he answered.

  “Call it that way myself, Dusty,” agreed the Kid. “Was I asked, that is.”

  “Take it you’re asked.”

  “Three of them, small camp, likely no more,” drawled the Kid. “Man’d near be safe betting it’s the scouts.”

  Stone and Dusty’s eyes met and there was the same thought in both their heads. However, the ultimate decision rested on Stone as the trail boss. He made it fast, without asking Dusty to share in the final responsibility if things went wrong. That was the way of a man like Stone Hart, or of a man like Dusty Fog. It was the way of a leader of men, of a trail boss.

  “Roust out the crew, Dusty,” he said. “I’ll tell Vance and his lady to be ready. We ride in one hour.”

  Dusty turned and went without another word. Time was valuable now. The three scouts were dead and the herd could be got started without word reaching the waiting Apaches until late the following day. The actual time would depend on when the scouts were due to be changed or to report to their leader.

  In the big dining-room of the bunkhouse section Dusty found a crowd of men, Vance’s regular crew, the Wedge cowhands and the soldiers. There was much good natured chaff among the men and Dusty stood at the door for a moment. The talk died down and he raised his voice.