by J. T. Edson
Birdie grabbed a mug from the table, filled it with hot coffee and darted forward to hand it to the Kid. He took the mug and drank, conscious that every eye was on him and that every one of the crowd was seething with questions.
“You made good time, Lon,” Dusty remarked as the Kid finished the coffee.
“Man’d say you’re right,” answered the Kid. “I met up with an Apache headed for war and discussed him out of his relay. Made me a fast ride up towards the ford.”
“How is it?” Vance asked.
“Bad, there’s a good two hundred braves waiting on the ford and likely more of them about if needed.”
“Two hundred?” Stone put in.
“Waal, I didn’t stop to make no herd count, Stone. Just took me a quick peek, then headed out again. I’ve seen me two hundred Injuns afore now and know about how many it is. There’s that many there, at least.”
Stone did not doubt the accuracy of the Kid’s words. There probably was not an exact two hundred braves there, but Stone was willing to take bets that the Kid called it to within twenty one way or the other. That many Apache would be a rough and hard handful for a full battalion of cavalry. They hopelessly outnumbered the trail crew. He asked no questions as to how the Kid came to be riding an Apache warrior’s war relay. Somewhere out there the Kid must have come on a lone scout or a brave headed for the fight. What happened after that was anybody’s guess. The Kid probably had not risked using his firearms for fear the noise would attract other Apaches. That meant there came a sudden, silent rush, the flash of sun off the blade of a James Black bowie knife and an Apache went to the happy hunting grounds.
“We’ll have to pull down to the south ford and forget the Fair,” Vance put it. “I don’t want to risk losing lives.”
It was not just a speech made to raise his prestige in the eyes of man. All the trail crew knew the store Vance set on getting the herd to Tombstone and they also knew he was sincere in what he said.
“There’s another way.”
All eyes went to the Kid as he spoke. Dusty knew that Indian dark and grim-looking young man as well, if not better, than any of the others and asked:
“What’re you getting at, Lon?”
“There’s a crossing on the Carne River—downstream—in the woods.”
“Can we use it?” Vance asked.
“Sure we can. The banks are easy, the water’s not even as fast as up at the other ford. It’s fairly open country on the other side. We can use it all right—if we can get rid of five young Apache bucks who’re watching it night and day.”
“Like that, huh?” Dusty drawled.
“Just like that,” agreed the Kid.
The others all fell silent, Birdie and Chow were no longer bickering and the rest of the hands sat waiting to hear what their fate was to be.
“Five of them couldn’t hold the ford against us,” Vance remarked, putting his thoughts into words.
“Nor even mean to try,” replied the Kid. “See, Vance, they’re not aiming to hold us up, or even fight us, not on their own. That’d be a foolish play and whatever else they might be, Apaches aren’t fools. They’ll be waiting on the river there, watching all day, for the first sight of the herd. They know the country, know how a herd’d have to travel to have grazing and water. They know that come noon tomorrow if you’re in sight of the woods that’s where you’ll be going, not up to the open ford to the north.”
“They might have more men in the woods then,” Vance remarked.
“Not unless they moved in since I left.”
Something in the way the Kid spoke warned Vance, told him a story. He looked at the unshaven, gaunt and tired face and knew that the Kid must have personally searched the woods, moving in complete silence to find the Apache scouts. “Tell it, Lon,” Dusty said gently.
Sinking to his haunches the Kid went on, “I came downstream after scouting the other ford. Found the tracks of five hosses and followed them. The hosses were staked out with a couple of young ’uns guarding them. I was afoot and went quiet. The other three were resting just inside the woods, but watching all the same. I let things lie, didn’t figure I could take five of them and any noise’d send the others heading off fast. I didn’t figure you’d want them either killing or scaring just yet awhile, Dusty.”
“That’s good figuring,” Dusty answered. “It’s no good warning the Apaches up at the other ford that we know about this one. I reckon their chief’s just covering all the bets by having this ford watched. He doesn’t expect us to use it.”
“You called it right. The scouts are boys, look like they’ve just been took in on the lodge and are being given this chore as a test. They likely have been told to run as soon as they see the herd, if it comes their way.”
“What would happen then?” Vance inquired. “You said the main bunch was at the other ford, right up to the north.”
“They are, but they could get down here and on to us before we could get over the river and far enough towards Tombstone, so it wouldn’t be safe for them to follow us further.”
Birdie came forward, halting to stand before the men, hands on hips and glaring at them.
“That’s enough for now,” she snapped. “Lon, I’ve got a plate of stew for you, it’s over on the wagon boards. Go and eat it.”
The Kid looked up at Birdie. He knew she was born and raised in the cattle country, she knew that only by the cook’s permission could the right to eat at the wagon board be given. Then he saw Chow giving a nod of agreement and realized he was being granted the supreme honor of the trail drive, he was being allowed to dine on the cook’s sacred territory.
“Dusty may not have finished with the Kid, dear,” Vance put in.
“He has,” she snorted, eyeing Dusty and daring him to object. “That poor boy looks as if he’s not eaten since he rode out two days ago and I’m not seeing all you well fed yahoos standing around asking him questions until he’s good and fed.”
Vance smiled, then said, “One thing I learned early during my marriage was never to argue with Birdie. You always wind up in second place.”
The Kid rose and followed Birdie to the chuck wagon and was soon eating a good meal. The men around the fire all sat back now. They’d done their day’s work and most of them would be taking a turn at the night herd soon.
“How about it, Dusty?” Stone asked, for this matter came under the province of the fighting leader rather than the trail boss.
“It’s the woods, down to the south or an early grave,” Dusty answered. “And given the choice, I’d take the woods to the river. The crew would only have to try and hold them in something like a bunch. We might lose a few head but we’ll get the rest over, what’s more we’ll make Tombstone alive, instead of some Apache’s wickiup as a war trophy.”
Stone chuckled. He might have felt annoyed at Dusty suggesting a way to get the cattle through the woods, but he did not. Dusty had put into words the thoughts Stone himself had on the problem of the woods and the solution. Now it all depended on whether Dusty’s fighting scout force could get rid of the Apache scouts and make sure any more who came were also dealt with.
“When that poor, tired lil boy’s had his food, took a bath and rested a mite, we’ll ride,” Dusty said. “He can use one of the remuda horses. I’ll take Mark, Johnny and Lon with me. You’ll have to let Peaceful ride close in scout.”
“Could I come along?” Vance asked.
Dusty looked at the rancher and grinned. “You’re getting to be a regular ole glory hunter, Vance.”
“Was his hair shoulder long I’d call him Custer,” agreed Stone, also grinning.
“Dash it all, there’s nothing in that,” Vance answered. “I merely want to go along and see how you handle things. I’ve done a considerable amount of hunting and hope I won’t get in the way.”
“You come along then,” Dusty answered. “What sort of things have you hunted?”
“Bear, mountain lion, bighorn sheep out here, stag in Scotlan
d, boar in the Westphalia of Germany,” Vance replied.
“Man who’s done that much hunting shouldn’t need us to help him then,” drawled Dusty. “Say I met a rancher up on the edge of the Indian Nations. He come from England. He told me about hunting wild pigs with a spear and from a horse, did you ever try that?”
“You mean pig-sticking,” Vance replied, grinning. “Only once, while I was on leave at Canton, in China. At least the chappie swore they were wild pigs. It turned out later we’d skewered some rich chappie’s prize breeding hog. He was annoyed.”
It was gone midnight when Dusty led Mark, the Kid, Vance and Johnny Raybold from the camp. The Kid had eaten well, been to the waterhole near the camp site and scrubbed himself free of the dirt and dust, changed into a fresh black outfit from his war bag and caught up with a brief sleep. For all the fact that he’d been sleeping lightly and uncertainly for the past couple of nights the Kid looked fresh and alert as if he’d been safely in his bed at the OD Connected each night.
Vance and the Kid drew ahead of the others. It was a rare tribute to the rancher that the Kid allowed him to ride up front on what amounted to a scout, as much a tribute and honor as was the Kid’s allowed to feed off the chuck wagon boards.
The two men rode along in silence, but after a time they brought their horses to a halt. A sudden noise and crashing through the night ahead of them again brought movement. Vance’s hand shot down as he leaned forward to jerk the Winchester rifle from his saddle boot. The Kid swung across and caught the rancher’s shoulder.
“Don’t bother, it’s only an old scrub bull taking off,” he drawled.
The sound of the animal’s rapid departure faded into the distance as Vance straightened once more. He peered through the darkness towards the Kid.
“How could you be sure it wasn’t a man?”
“Ole Thunder here told me.”
“But he didn’t do anything,” Vance objected.
“That’s how I know. If it’d been a man ole Thunder’d have pointed him like a deep south bird dog aiming at a bobwhite quail.”
“The Apache might have men out there though,” Vance went on.
“Might, but it’s not likely. All their men are gathered up there at the open ford, except for the scouts. The braves have gathered. I reckon I must have got one of the last on his way. Just stop your hoss a minute and listen.”
The horses halted and Vance strained his ears, listening, trying to catch some light sound which might tell him what the Kid could hear. There was nothing but the ever present yipping of coyotes, the more distant bellow as an old scrub bull let out a challenge to the world in general and other bulls in particular. In the distance another bull answered. Off in the other direction, faint yet still with the menace it always held, came the scream of a cougar. These were the only sounds Vance could hear, these and the ever chirping noises of the night insects.
“I can’t hear anything but the usual night noises,” he finally said.
“Or me,” admitted the Kid, “and as long as they’re there I’m happy. Man comes along and those same noises stop. I bet that Johnny knows just where we are, from back there a piece by the way the coyotes have stopped yipping our way. Listen, see if you can tell where Johnny’s bringing Dusty and Mark along from.”
For a moment Vance did as he was told. The coyotes appeared to be calling all around, then he realized that the sounds were not coming from behind. A few seconds after he made out the faint noises of horses’ hooves.
“Listen real good and you’ll hear the leather creaking,” the Kid went on.
Vance strained his ears but the riders were in view, dark blobs against the blackness of the range, before he could catch the faint sound of leather creaking. The Kid’s Indian keen ears had picked up the same faint sound at a far greater distance. Vance could see now why back at his ranch Dusty showed such complete faith when the Kid said it was soldiers who approached through the night.
The three horses loomed up out of the night and Johnny asked somewhat tactlessly, “All quiet, Lon?”
“Nope,” sarcasm dripped heavily from the Kid’s soft spoken reply. “We’re fighting Apaches off on both sides.”
“Let’s go,” Dusty answered before Johnny could think up a suitable answer. “I want to be on those Apaches before they know we’re about. That means getting to the woods before dawn.”
The men rode on and once more Vance was amazed at the way the Kid acted. This was a new range for him and yet without the slightest hesitation he was taking them where they wanted to go. Vance knew that with compass and map he might be able to aim for a given point and reach it, but the Kid used neither. He relied on the inborn instinct granted to him by the blood of his Comanche forefathers. It was the ability of a travelling Indian to find his way from one point to another without any aids other than his sense of direction. This time the Kid had traversed most of the journey in daylight, coming from his scout of the river to the herd. For all of that it was no mean feat for him to find his way back to the river through the night.
Soon after the others catching up, Dusty and the Kid held a quiet conversation, then the Kid faded away, his big white stallion moving in the silence of a wild thing. The Kid had refused the loan of a remuda horse to use on the scout. He had used the captured Apache relay for his work and the white was still fresh enough to handle this raid. The Kid had complete faith in the huge white stallion he called Thunder, the horse had been specially trained for such things and was able to locate hidden men, then give the Kid a warning of their presence. Also the white would stand, not fastened, like a statue for as long as the Kid wanted and would never make a sound to betray it or its master.
Time passed, the other men rode in a straight line, not talking now, for they were approaching the river and Apache ears were very keen. It was surprising how far the sound of a voice carried at night. Vance had seen some action against Chinese bandits while in the British Army and knew that as well as did the Texans.
Vance’s ears were working at full power but he still received a shock when the Kid’s white horse stepped from behind a bush. He heard the Kid’s gentle chuckle and knew the others were almost as surprised as he was.
“They’re in there someplace, Dusty,” whispered the Kid. “Ain’t camping the same place as last night. Never thought they would be. They won’t sleep the same place two nights running if they can help it.”
“What do you reckon?”
“There’s a hollow ahead, got water, good graze. We could leave the hosses down there, then move in on foot and find the camp.”
“Lead on to it, amigo—”
The men left their horses standing in the hollow and gathered. Dusty told them what the Kid found out. He looked them all over and then made his decision.
“Johnny, stay here, keep the hosses out of sight and quiet. Vance, you’ll come with us. Take rifles along.”
Johnny did not argue at this moment. He knew Dusty well and knew that this was not the time for argument. He was better able to handle Dusty and Mark’s big stallions than was a comparative stranger like Vance. Those two horses did not take kindly to strangers being around them, or trying to handle them and it would take a horseman of the first water to control them.
Vance drew the rifle from his saddle boot, slowly worked the lever to put a bullet into the chamber, doing it so as to make as little noise as possible. He was just a little worried, for the slightest slip might mean the Apaches would be scared off, running to warn the others. If that happened, the main bunch would come down to attack the herd.
Ten – In the Woods
“This’s far enough!”
The words, no louder than a whisper, came from Dusty Fog as he sank to one knee under a tree. Behind him Mark Counter, the Ysabel Kid and Vance Brownlow also sank down. They’d made their way to the edge of the woods and moved in only a few yards when Dusty came to a halt.
“What is it, Dusty?” Vance whispered.
“No sense in busting a
round here and making noise in the dark. We’ll just settle down and wait until it’s light enough to see.”
The four men settled down as Dusty said, resting their backs against three trunks. Vance was more tired than he could remember, for he’d been on night herd the previous night and spent the day in the saddle. His head was nodding and the Kid whispered in his ear:
“They’re not too far off. I can hear their hosses moving,”
“Are we moving in on them, then?”
“You find them and I’ll move in,” breathed the Kid in reply. “They’re not by the hosses, that’s one thing you can bet on. Try and get some sleep. One thing though—happen you’re going to snore—don’t.”
Vance rested his head on the hard, upstanding root of the tree against which he leaned. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. To the best of his knowledge he did not snore and doubted if he would even go to sleep with such a hard pillow.
A hand clamped down on Vance’s mouth, while another shook him. He tried to struggle but the grip was too strong. His eyes opened and he found that it was now almost fully daylight. Mark held on to Vance until sure that the rancher was fully awake and would not make any sound, then released him. Vance sat up, carefully working his stiff and sore limbs, he looked around. Dusty was leaning against a tree, keeping out of sight behind the trunk. Of the Kid was no sign at all for a moment, then he was back. Coming through the bushes with the silence of a ghost, his rifle in his hands.
“You full awake yet?” Mark asked gently.
“Awake and ready,” Vance replied, working his fingers to get the stiffness out of them.
“Found them, Lon?” Dusty asked, although he knew the answer.
The Kid’s answer was grimly eloquent. He jerked his head towards the bushes and gave a gentle warning. “Go quieter than quiet, all of you.”
The others rose and exchanged looks. This was the moment. Right now could be the beginning of safety or the end of the herd and most probably the lives of every man and the woman who rode with the cattle.
