Goodnight's Dream (A Floating Outfit Western Book 4)

by J. T. Edson

‘Back!’ Spat growled, his voice rising above the whisper it had employed up to that moment.

  ‘Hold it down!’ Dusty hissed. ‘Yeah. Go back to the herd and ask Uncle Charlie to send some of the boys.’

  ‘Damn it!’ Spat began. ‘If you reckon all I’m good for—’

  ‘You did the right thing with Oliver Loving!’ Dusty snapped back. ‘So, for the good Lord’s sake do it right now. You know this range, which I don’t. So you can get there and back faster than me.’

  ‘What’re you planning to do?’

  ‘Trail along after them—’

  ‘We could both go.’

  ‘That’s no answer, Spat. There’re three of them we know about, likely another one at least brought the word about the boss coming. And I reckon he won’t be travelling alone. That makes too many for us to handle without counting a whole heap too much on luck favoring us. No, we play it my way.’

  At any other time Spat would have admitted that Dusty made right good sense. Only the memory of how he had gone for help and left two friends to die fighting the Comanches caused him to argue. Yet he could see no wavering on Dusty’s face and so gave in. Nor did the fact that Dusty was Goodnight’s nephew affect Spat’s decision. He knew the big man at his side had a fighting reputation second to none and the ability to plan well. More than that, Dusty was picking the part he could handle best.

  ‘I’ll be back with the boys, Cap’n,’ Spat promised.

  ‘And I’ll be waiting,’ Dusty replied. ‘Take my dun and ride relay. I can handle the trailing best a-foot.’

  Slowly, reluctantly, Spat followed Dusty from the rim. Already the other men had started to ride back up the opposite slope and were almost at the top. So Dusty was eager to get after them. In case he should lose them, he asked for and received instructions on how to locate the deserted mustangers’ camp.

  ‘Can’t I—’ Spat continued, after finishing his description.

  ‘No!’ Dusty stated firmly and took a box of bullets for his carbine from the dun’s saddle pouches. ‘You’re doing the only thing that’ll help. Now move out and don’t stop to pick daisies on the way.’

  Giving a resigned shrug, Spat freed and led off the horses. He took a final look at Dusty, hoping to see signs of a change of heart. None showed, so he swung astride his mount and led the dun away with him.

  Watching the cowhand go, Dusty wondered if he should have collected more bullets for his revolvers. The paper cartridges used in the 1860 Army Colt did not travel well, stuffed into a pocket, being liable to rupture and ruin in the event of violent movement. Loading with loose powder and ball was possible, but far too slow to perform in the heat of a gunfight. So he figured that he had made the right decision and could rely on the carbine’s twelve-shot load backed by a full box of fifty metal-case bullets.

  Carbine in hand, Dusty turned his thoughts to following the men. Already they had passed over the other rim and gone from sight. For all that, he advanced with care and made use of whatever cover he could find. Going up the opposite slope he found that the trio had gone beyond his range of vision. He did not try to catch up with them, knowing that to do so a-foot and wearing cowhand boots—designed for riding, not hiking—would be impossible. Nor was there any need to take such measures. According to Spat’s description, the trail along which the men were riding led to the deserted mustangers’ camp and had, in fact, originally been made by them. So Dusty could follow it with the expectancy of discovering his quarry at the end.

  There were numerous times as he walked that Dusty cursed his boots. Yet he did not allow the increasing ache in his feet to wipe away his caution. He saw no sign of the trio but at last the camp appeared through the trees. Set on the banks of a small stream, in the open bottom of a valley, it consisted of the buildings Spat had mentioned. Beyond the stream, the wooded land started again. All of the trio’s horses stood before the cabin but none of the men were in sight. From what Dusty could see, it would be inadvisable to let the other side enter the cabin. Both it and the barn had been built to last and, while dilapidated, offered mighty effective defensive positions.

  Continuing his cautious advance, Dusty decided on a change of plan. Instead of waiting for his companions to arrive, he would attempt to slip up unseen and capture the trio. Doing so would not be easy, but was preferable to letting them and whoever was coming have the cabin to hide in when Goodnight’s men arrived.

  About to move closer, Dusty found himself looking into the muzzle of a Sharps rifle that appeared from behind the trunk of a tree ahead of him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I’m Going to Enjoy Making You Talk

  ‘I told you somebody was sneaking around, Al,’ said Scroggins’ voice from behind the rifle-sprouting tree.

  ‘And you was right, Scrog,’ answered Turner, rising from behind a dogwood bush to Dusty’s left and holding a Colt. ‘Drop the rifle, short stuff.’

  Like every intelligent fighting man, Dusty knew not only how but when to make war. Right then was not the moment. Covered by two weapons and with no cover readily available on his right side, resistance would be futile and fatal. So he lowered the carbine’s butt to the ground and released his hold on the barrel, letting it fall as gently as possible.

  ‘Hey! What’s the game?’ Dusty asked, trying to sound mild and puzzled. ‘Oh! It’s you fellers. Say, did you get your steers back?’

  ‘Naw,’ Turner answered. ‘All we’ve got’s you. Unbuckle your gunbelt and let it drop. Do it left-handed, slow and careful.’

  ‘It’d be as easy to shoot him right now,’ Scroggins commented, moving into sight alongside the tree.

  ‘Like hell it would!’ Turner snapped as Dusty tensed, ready to sell his life dearly. ‘He’s Goodnight’s nephew. So I’m wondering what the hell he’s doing out here and a-foot.’

  With his finger already tightening on the trigger, Scroggins frowned and halted its rearward movement. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘There’s that.’

  ‘Get that belt off, boy!’ Turner continued. ‘Left-handed, like I said.’

  Smart precaution in the majority of cases, the insistence on Dusty using his left hand might have cost the pair a high price.

  Although completely ambidextrous—a natural talent improved on in his childhood as a means of offsetting his small size—Dusty had given no hint of it on his previous meeting with them. Allowed a chance, he could have just as easily and efficiently used his left hand to good advantage. He did not see the chance. Both of the men possessed sufficient gun-handling savvy to be very dangerous. A man could not take undue risks with their kind—not twice, anyways. So Dusty freed the pigging thongs securing the holster bottoms to his legs, unbuckled the belt and let it fall to his feet.

  ‘That suit you?’ he asked.

  ‘Move away from it,’ Turner ordered and, as Dusty obeyed, went on, ‘Now put your hands behind you.’

  Coming to a halt, Dusty did as he was instructed. However, he placed his wrists together instead of crossing them. Without presenting Dusty with the opportunity to resist, Turner moved in behind him. Holstering his Colt, the man drew a length of cord from his pocket. He formed a loop, hooked it up over Dusty’s hands, drew it tight and started to fasten it without making the small Texan cross his wrists.

  ‘That’s got him,’ Turner grinned, walking confidently by the prisoner. ‘Let’s take him down to the cabin and ask him some questions.’

  ‘What if I don’t answer?’ Dusty inquired.

  ‘I sure hope you don’t,’ Turner told him. ‘I’m going to enjoy making you talk. Get moving.’

  Not until Dusty’s hands were secured did Scroggins relax. Then he walked forward, his eyes going briefly to the carbine and jerking sharply back in its direction as realization struck him.

  ‘Hey, Al,’ the lanky man said. ‘He’s got a Henry, only it looks better’n any Henry I ever saw.’

  ‘It’s your’n,’ Turner told him generously, then looked at Dusty. ‘Come on.’

  ‘How do you fi
gure to make me?’ the small Texan drawled, watching Scroggins lean the Sharps against a tree and make for the carbine. ‘You can’t use your gun in case I’ve got pards around looking for me.’

  ‘We don’t need guns to handle a runt like you,’ Turner spat back.

  ‘You didn’t do so good last time,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘And there was three of you at it then.’

  A hot flush of annoyance crept over Turner’s face. With the plan they had been instructed in only partially successful—not even that, according to what he had seen of Goodnight’s herd growing in numbers—Turner’s employers were vocal in their recriminations. Worse than that, they flatly refused to pay the trio until some more adequate result was forthcoming. So, instead of being free to spend time and money in celebrations, they had been forced to remain in the comfortless mustangers’ camp. That their failure had been brought about by such a small, insignificant cuss increased Turner’s anger. So Dusty’s reminder brought the man’s temper to boiling-over point.

  ‘One of us’ll be enough!’ Turner snarled and moved towards Dusty. ‘See if it ain’t.’

  Facing Dusty, but to his right, Turner prepared to enforce his demands. Catching the small Texan’s right bicep with his left hand, Turner began to pull him forward and drew back his own left fist for a punch. Just an instant too late the man became aware of the size and solid nature of the muscles he gripped. Yet he still did not realize that he was playing right into his ‘victim’s’ hands.

  While Turner remembered the manner in which Dusty had acted by the herd, he preferred to regard it as no more than panic-inspired luck which brought his and Luhmere’s downfall. Sure the small cuss had moved fast, taking them by surprise. Only this time he did not have the element of surprise on his side. So thought Turner until awareness of Dusty’s muscular development began to sink in. By that time, it was too late.

  Dusty did not try to hold back against the pull. Instead he let himself be drawn towards Turner. Up close enough for his purpose, Dusty pivoted on his right foot until its toe pointed directly at Turner. Whipping up his left leg, Dusty propelled its knee with considerable force between the other’s spread-apart lower limbs. Turner let out a croaking cry of pure agony. Nausea and pain almost too great to bear caused him to release his hold on Dusty’s bicep. Stumbling back and doubling over, Turner collapsed writhing to the ground.

  Becoming aware of what was happening, Scroggins forgot his interest in the new model ‘Henry’ and turned. Just in time he remembered the need for reasonable silence and decided against using the carbine as a firearm. There seemed no need to shoot when dealing with a small man whose hands were tied behind his back; even if he was fortunate enough to have done Turner a severe piece of no good. Striding forward, he swung up the little Winchester in both hands, his intention being to drive its metal-shod butt against the back of Dusty’s head.

  Anticipating the attack and gambling on the way that it would come, Dusty was ready to counter it. From kneeing Turner, he brought his left foot back to the ground. With the carbine swinging savagely in his direction, he bowed his torso forward. Over his head whistled the butt and he felt the wind of its passing. Still bent over, he twisted his hips slightly, balanced on the left leg and shot his right foot in Scroggins’ direction. The high-heeled boot spiked hard into the lanky man’s belly as he continued forward with the weight of his abortive blow. Although the kick landed just a touch too high to be fully effective, it threw its recipient backwards. Reeling under the impact, Scroggins dropped the carbine but did not go down.

  Ignoring Scroggins for a moment, Dusty brought down his leg. Before him, Turner was still rolling in torment and clutching at the injured area. Dusty could not take the chance of the man staying incapacitated while he dealt with Scroggins. So he sprang forward and kicked Turner at the side of the jaw. Rolled over by the force of the latest attack, Turner came to rest on his back and lay without a movement.

  Whirling around, Dusty faced Scroggins, Pride prevented the lean man from yelling for help. Scroggins could imagine Luhmere’s comments if called to help against the small, handicapped Texan. So Scroggins began to move forward and saw that the big cowhand stood balanced lightly, clearly ready to defend himself.

  ‘All right, feller!’ Scroggins snarled, sliding his saber from its sheath. ‘I’m going to cut you to doll-rags.’

  From the way Scroggins advanced, he knew more than the rudiments of handling a saber. Bounding in, he launched an inside swing at Dusty’s head. If he had been dealing with the normal run of cowhand, Scroggins would have been successful. However, Dusty had received saber training from childhood and still managed to keep up his practice when at home. So he read what the other planned to do and avoided the attack by a rapid stride to the rear. Scroggins followed the small Texan, making cuts that Dusty identified before they started and evaded by fast footwork. Yet Scroggins managed to keep himself at a distance where Dusty could not reach him with a kick. It was, Dusty knew, only a matter of time before Luhmere made an appearance to see what was delaying his companions’ return. Somehow Dusty must deal with his assailant, free his hands and arm himself before that happened.

  Being missed by a savage down-lashing direct swing to the head, Dusty appeared to land awkwardly. Stumbling, he fell with his back to the trunk of a sturdy cottonwood tree. With a snarl of satisfaction, Scroggins followed up his advantage. Forward shot the saber in a near-classic lunge, its point aimed at the small Texan’s belly. At the last instant Dusty twisted himself aside. Hissing by him, the point of the saber spiked deep into the wood. Once again the impetus of an attack carried Scroggins into danger. Thrusting himself from the tree, Dusty met the man. Driving up his knee, Dusty slammed it into Scroggins’ chest. The man released his saber, which remained standing out from the Cottonwood’s trunk. Staggering back, he straightened up. Dusty followed him, bounding into the air and sending both boots crashing into him. The right foot caught the center of Scroggins’ chest and the left impacted on his jaw. Lifted from his feet by the force of the mae-tobi-geri forward jump kick of karate, Scroggins crashed to the springy turf. He bounced once and then went limply still.

  Landing from his attack, Dusty staggered and caught his balance. There was no time to waste, but he looked around him and made sure that he did not need fear a further attack from his assailants or Luhmere. Satisfied on that score, he went to the cottonwood. Turning with his back to the tree, he carefully hooked his bound hands under the saber. Then he rested the small of his back against the hilt, pressing on it in an attempt to hold it firm. Raising his hands slowly, he felt the touch of cold steel on his flesh. Down it moved until the sharp cutting edge rested on the cord binding his wrists. At that moment the wisdom of avoiding crossing his wrists showed. Edging his hands back and forwards, Dusty felt the saber’s cutting edge slitting the fibers of the cord.

  Having no wish to slice open his hands. Dusty worked slowly and carefully. The need to hurry soon rose. Rolling on to his face, Scroggins slowly forced himself up onto hands and knees. Beyond him, Turner was groaning and stirring. As the sound reached his ears, Scroggins looked towards its source. He shook his head to clear the swirling mists from it and remembrance returned with a rush. Forgetting his companion, he swung his eyes around in search of the cause of his misfortunes. At the sight of Dusty standing against the tree, fury twisted Scroggins’ face. No longer did the man worry about the noise of a shot attracting unwanted attentions. Spitting out a curse, he grabbed at his holstered revolver.

  With a tug, Dusty snapped the remaining strands of the rope. From doing so, his right hand slipped into the saber’s hilt. Giving a pull that plucked the point from the tree’s trunk, Dusty thrust himself into motion. While he could claim to be something of an expert in the use of the saber, the attack he launched did not come from the curriculum of any salle-de-armes. Leaving the tree’s shelter, Dusty threw himself forward in a somersaulting dive. Going by the kneeling Scroggins, Dusty launched a slash in mid-air. Steel sliced into th
e side of the man’s neck until the cutting edged chipped against the neck bones. The Colt was only just clearing leather as Dusty struck, Scroggins’ reactions being too sluggish for the rapid movement that would have saved him. Feeling the saber stick, Dusty released it. Ahead of him lay his carbine. Never had he felt so pleased than when his hands closed on the walnut furnishings and he finished his roll holding the fully loaded Winchester.

  Twisting around on his knees, Dusty halted the carbine halfway to his shoulder. Scroggins sprawled on his back, dripping his life-blood over the springy grass. That left Turner, and Dusty swung his way. Still too hurt and dazed to intervene, the man offered no immediate danger. Under the circumstances, however, Dusty did not dare take a chance. Not when Turner might recover sufficiently to take cards before Dusty could deal with the last of the trio. Dusty rose and approached the groaning hardcase. A sharp blow from the carbine’s butt tumbled Turner back into harmless unconsciousness.

  For a moment Dusty stood breathing hard. Then he mopped his brow with a bandana. Crossing to where his gunbelt lay, he picked it up and strapped it on.

  ‘Now for Luhmere,’ he breathed. ‘Whooee! I wouldn’t want to go through that again in a hurry—or ever.’

  It was, he knew, as tight a spot as he had ever been in. Once more he had reason to be thankful for his small size, insignificant appearance and the karate lessons received from Tommy Okasi.

  Fully armed again, Dusty went to the top of the slope and took his first long look at the mustangers’ camp. The cabin, with the horses before it, was closest to his position. Without a time-consuming detour, he could not make use of the barn or corral as a means of concealment. While he could reach the foot of the slope unseen, he faced crossing some sixty yards of open ground from there to his destination. Going down the slope from cover to cover, Dusty gave rapid thought to the problem and found himself faced with two choices. Either he could make a run for the building, hoping to arrive before Luhmere heard him, or he could attempt to drift up silently and unsuspected.