by J. T. Edson
Slowly the door opened. While the sitting room had a lamp glowing over the desk, Wednesbury’s bedroom lay in darkness. Standing inside, so that only his empty hands could be seen clearly, was a shadowy figure.
‘Good evening,’ it said.
‘Oh!’ grunted Hayden, recognizing the voice. ‘It’s you!’
‘It’s me,’ admitted the newcomer. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I can never resist the chance to eavesdrop.’
‘How much have you heard?’ Hayden demanded, but waved back Scabee who snarled a curse and began to move towards the bedroom.
‘Almost everything your uncouth friend’s said. Ask him to put the gun away. If he kills me, you’ll have lost your only chance of stopping Goodnight.’
‘Do it, Scabee,’ Hayden ordered. ‘I know this man.’
‘You near on got killed, feller,’ Scabee growled, returning the Remington to its holster. ‘I like to shot you when I heard you behind the door.’
‘If you’re no better than the others Mr. Hayden hired,’ the man answered, still not showing himself, ‘I wasn’t in any great danger.’
‘What do you think, having eavesdropped on us?’ Hayden said, ignoring Scabee’s indignant muttering. ‘Come in.’
‘I’ll stay where I am if you don’t mind,’ the man told him. ‘The less who know me the better I like it. As to what I think; the work was amateurishly handled and badly bungled.’
‘Maybe you could’ve done better?’ Scabee challenged.
For a moment the newcomer did not speak, then he said, ‘I’m trying to think how I could have done worse. Well, Mr. Hayden, have you considered my offer?’
‘You’re asking a high price,’ Hayden commented.
‘As you’ve just found out, you hire cheap, you get cheap results,’ the man told him. ‘My price is high because I guarantee success. If I don’t produce, you don’t pay me.’
‘Just how do you figure on taking Charlie Goodnight, fancy pants?’ demanded Scabee.
‘My way,’ the newcomer replied calmly.
‘For what you’re asking, I’ll want to know more about your way than that,’ Hayden warned.
‘First, you tried to stop Goodnight gathering his herd and made a complicated plan to do it. That was a mistake. You were going against him on his home ground for one thing. Instead of stopping him, you just warned him of danger. You ought to have let him get the herd well along the trail, then busted him. But the way things turned out, it’s happened for the best.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Well, Mr. Hayden, due to your efforts, Goodnight is taking along cattle for five of his neighbors as well as his own—’
‘And that’s for the best?’ Scabee sneered.
‘It is,’ agreed the shadowy figure. ‘Those ranchers have their hopes raised high and are looking to a rosy future. When Goodnight fails to get through, they’ll be badly disappointed. So badly that none of them will have the heart to try again, and their experiences will scare off others from trying. And you’ll be able to go on buying their cattle dirt cheap, sending them to the Army in New Mexico or up to Kansas with a near monopoly on doing it.’
‘How did you know—?’ Hayden gasped.
‘I guessed, but I see that I have found your motives.’
‘Go on,’ requested the impressed Hayden.
This was a vastly different kind of man from the dull-witted, unthinking hardcases who came so cheaply and carried all their brains in their trigger fingers. The speaker in the bedroom had intelligence, drew correct conclusions and came with excellent references.
‘I’ll stop Goodnight reaching Fort Sumner,’ the man promised without a hint of boasting. ‘How I do it is my own concern. For what you pay me, I supply everything I need—’
‘Does that include the men?’
‘All I need, Mr. Hayden,’ the man repeated. ‘You will deposit my money with Bossaert at the saloon along the street. Not until you are satisfied that I have fulfilled my end of the bargain do you authorize him to give it to me.’
‘Do you trust him?’ Hayden inquired.
‘Another saloonkeeper was asked to hold money for me, but when I went to collect, claimed he had been robbed.’
‘What’d you do to him?’ Scabee wanted to know.
‘Told him how sorry I was for his bad luck. Losing my money was only the start of it.’
‘How come?’
‘He did quite a good night’s business next day. The trouble was that three of his customers died and the rest were so sick because of his liquor that he lost all his trade and got lynched by indignant citizens,’ the man explained. ‘Yes, Mr. Hayden, I can trust Bossaert. He knows that nobody has ever double-crossed me without very rapidly wishing he had not.’
Chapter Two – I’ve Never Shot A Man On The Trail
‘That’s one right forceful and determined gal, I told you, Dusty,’ Mark Counter declared admiringly, nodding to where Dawn Sutherland was carrying her low-horned, double-cinched saddle towards the Swinging G corral.
‘She sure is,’ grinned Dusty Fog, also turning his eyes in the direction of the girl.
Tall, slender, but blossoming into full womanhood, Dawn Sutherland wore a man’s tartan shirt and levis pants, the turned-up cuffs of which hung outside her high-heeled riding boots in the approved cowhand fashion. On her blonde hair, cut boyishly short before her return from Mineral Wells, a white Confederate Army campaign hat’s brim threw a shadow over her tanned, pretty face. About her middle was a military gunbelt with a Cooper Navy revolver in its open-topped holster. Dusty had cause to know that the gun was no mere decoration. If her free-striding walk and the way she carried the heavy saddle, with a forty-foot hard-plaited Manila rope coiled at its horn and a twin-barreled ten-gauge shotgun in the boot, was anything to go on, she was a healthy, fit and strong young woman.
‘If you think that blow-up with Colonel Charlie just now was something to watch, you ought to have seen the one with her pappy when she told him she was coming,’ Mark chuckled. ‘I thought that li’l gal was fixing to whup us all, tooth ’n’ claw, to get her way. She’ll make a hand, Dusty.’
‘How about the rest of them?’ Dusty inquired, indicating a group of ten assorted, but fairly representative cowhands hovering in the background.
‘They handled the herd from Mineral Wells easy enough,’ Mark answered. ‘Which, afore you tell me, I know it’s nothing to what’s ahead. Swede Ahlen there,’ he nodded to a big, powerfully built blond man, ‘he’s the Double 2’s segundo. Hultze and the other ranchers figured they should have one foreman along. Swede’s not pushy and’s willing to take orders as long as he figures the man giving ’em’s giving the right ones.’
‘Do the rest of them listen to him?’
‘Most do. Bench P, Lazy F and Double 2 are all pards, but the Flying H and D4S get along all right with them. Young Vern Sutherland’s a mite wild, but he’ll likely grow out of it when she stops being his big sister. That flashy-dressed, good-looking cuss’s Burle Willock from the Double 2. He’s a good hand. They all are but he knows it.’
‘I’ll mind it,’ Dusty promised.
Faced with the post of segundo, second in command to Goodnight, on the trail drive, Dusty did not regard Mark’s comments as snooping or a breach of confidence. With seven ranches involved, even though four of them had sent only two men each, he would have to stay constantly alert against inter-spread rivalry. One of the cowhand’s prime virtues, which Dusty greatly admired, was his loyalty to the brand for which he rode. Yet he must persuade the trail crew to put aside thoughts of their respective outfits and weld them into a smoothly functioning working team as quickly as possible. Only by doing so could they hope to complete the six hundred mile journey to Fort Sumner.
So every detail Dusty could learn about the men and their relationship to each other would be of the greatest help in keeping the peace and achieving unity.
Sure the drive to Fort Sumner had been completed before, but never with such a large
herd or small crew. On his previous drives, Goodnight had used at least twenty trail hands to handle a thousand to fifteen hundred head. Experience had led him to believe the number was grossly excessive. Penny-pinching did not account for the view. So many men tended to get in each other’s way and caused confusion in an emergency. With that in mind, Goodnight planned to deliver three thousand five hundred head with a crew of only eighteen trail hands, his segundo, cook, cook’s louse and three horse wranglers. If his gamble paid off, a herd and crew of the same general size could complete the longer journey to Kansas with a sufficient margin of profit to make the attempt worthwhile.
Much depended on Dusty as segundo for the drive’s success. Never a man to flinch from responsibility, he meant to do everything in his power to see his uncle’s scheme put through.
If Dusty and Mark studied and discussed the Mineral Wells cowhands in a surreptitious manner, the return scrutiny was much more frank and open. In fact, Dusty could guess at the thoughts uppermost in the newcomers’ minds. How did one reconcile the Dusty Fog of legends with the actual man. Such a reputation should go with a giant figure, capable of physically dominating any company and of commanding appearance.
Dusty Fog stood five foot six in his high-heeled boots. While his clothes had cost good money and were those of a top hand, he contrived to give them the appearance of somebody’s cast-offs. A new black Stetson, low of crown and wide brimmed in the Texas fashion, rode on his dusty blond head. His face was handsome, if not exceptionally so. If one chose to look closer, the cool gray eyes and strength of his features told the tale of the real man within. Around his waist was a finely-built gunbelt with a silver Confederate States Army buckle. Its carefully designed cross-draw holsters supported two bone-handled 1860 Army Colts. Efficient outfit though it might be, the gunbelt did nothing to lessen the small Texan’s insignificant appearance—in times of peace.
If Dusty Fog failed to look the part, Mark Counter might have posed for a painting of the popular conception of a hero. Six foot three in height, his golden blond, curly hair and almost classically handsome features topped a truly splendid physical development. A great spread of shoulders tapered down to a slender waist and long, powerfully muscled legs. Decorated with a silver concha-studded band, his costly white Stetson hinted at his affluence. Around his throat was knotted a tight-rolled green silk bandana. His broadcloth shirt—its sleeves hinting at the enormous biceps under them—and levis pants had obviously been tailored to his fit, while his boots were the best money could buy. Like Dusty, he wore a gunbelt made by a master craftsman and supporting matched ivory-handled Army Colts of Best Citizens Finish in the contoured holsters.
Over the years Dusty had grown used to the surprise people showed when meeting him for the first time. He reckoned he could win over the newly arrived cowhands and effectively deal with objections to one of his stature giving orders to larger, more imposing men.
There was, however, one disturbing element. It had been Dawn Sutherland who brought Goodnight the first warning of the stolen cattle and received an account of his dream to rebuild Texas’ war-shattered economy. The idea had been that she should return to her home near Mineral Wells and persuade the local ranchers to send men and cattle to accompany the Swinging G herd. However, Dawn planned to do more than act as messenger, then sit passively in a corner while the men-folk went off. Oldest child, she was aware of her responsibilities. A riding accident had lamed her father and he might never recover sufficiently to make extended journeys. Regarding her younger brother as a mere child—he lacked two years of her nineteen—she decided that it fell upon her to go on the drive and learn how to handle a trail herd. Despite arguments, pleadings by her mother, objections from her father and brother and warnings of the difficulties her presence might cause to the male trail hands, she had remained adamant. In the end, to Vern’s protests, her parents had given permission for Dawn to go. Nor had Goodnight been any more successful in dissuading her.
Dawn’s presence might raise problems. A good-looking girl could easily stir up the unruly, lusty younger element of the crew. However, from what he had seen, she knew how to take care of herself and steer clear of romantic troubles. It was still, however, something more added to Dusty’s burden at a time when he could have done with things taken off not added.
There had been only one incident of note on Mark’s visit to Mineral Wells. Two days before the return journey was begun, he and the Kid had recognized a man whom they had last seen as part of Chisum’s trail crew, with the stolen cattle. On learning that the man had been asking questions about their presence in town, they had discussed what should be done. Discarding his companion’s simple, if drastic, solution, Mark had decided on keeping the man under surveillance. So the Kid had followed him when he left town and did not return in time to assist on the short drive to Young County.
While Dusty approved of Mark’s decision, being interested to know if the death of Wednesbury had ended the threat to the drive, the Kid’s absence deprived them of his services as a scout. He would catch up to them on the trail, having collected a relay of horses from the D4S before setting out after the snooper, and, fortunately, the need for his presence would be less during the earlier days of the journey.
A stirring and change of the Mineral Wells men’s point of interest diverted Dusty from his thoughts. The cowhands were looking to where their trail boss had left the main house and stood on the edge of its porch with a sheaf of papers in his hand.
Charles Goodnight had the build of a Comanche warrior, middle-sized, stocky, powerfully framed but far from clumsy. Apart from his neatly trimmed beard, his face held some of that savage nation’s qualities in its keen, hard eyes and impassive strength. He dressed little differently from the cowhands, except that his vest was made from the rosette-spotted hide of a jaguar which had foolishly strayed north and tried to live off his cattle. Matched rosewood handled Army Colts rode in the holsters of his gunbelt and he knew how to use them.
‘The Kid’s not back yet?’ Goodnight inquired as his nephew and Mark walked across to join him.
‘No, sir,’ Dusty replied. ‘He’ll follow that feller and see who he meets if it can be done. Then he’ll come back and catch up with us on the trail.’
‘We shouldn’t need him for a week at least,’ the rancher said. ‘And I’m like you, I’d like to know if Wednesbury’s partner is still in the game. Get the hands to come here, Dustine.’
‘Yo!’ Dusty gave the old cavalry response to an order.
Sensing what was in the air, big Swede Ahlen led the other men up before Dusty had time to speak. Forming into a rough half circle before the porch, they waited eagerly to hear what Goodnight had to say.
‘I’d best make a few things clear to you,’ the rancher announced. ‘You’ve handled herds and know what it’s all about. Well, this drive’ll be much the same—except that it’s longer and with more cattle than you’ve ever tried. There’s only one way we’ll get through. By working together and obeying orders. I’ve made out these Articles of Agreement which I want you to read and sign. They’ll be binding from the moment you put on your signature until the drive’s over. Binding to you and just as completely to me.’
‘Would you read ’em out to us, Colonel Charlie?’ Ahlen requested, his voice as Texan as any of the cowhands’. ‘Some of us’re a mite shy on schooling.’
Nodding soberly, the rancher complied. Maybe Goodnight had never served in the Army, or risen to higher rank than sergeant with the Texas Rangers—his title being honorary, granted in respect for his courage, integrity and qualities of leadership v —but he had a strong sense of responsibility to the men he hired. On his previous drives, he had established a code of conduct for boss and crew, setting it down in writing that all might know exactly where they stood.
In a clear voice Goodnight began to read the various paragraphs of the Articles. First he stated, in plain terms all could follow, what he as trail boss undertook to do. Then he went on to stres
s the importance of instant obedience to the orders of himself or his aides, Dusty Fog as segundo, or Mark Counter in the small Texan’s absence. While reading the duties of the trail hands, Goodnight watched the Mineral Wells men. Nods of agreement with the various points came from the older, steadier listeners, showing that they at least accepted the Articles as satisfactory. All saw the need for the ruling that hard liquor would only be carried in the chuck wagon and used for medicinal purposes; a drunken cowhand being a danger to himself and menace to the safety of the whole drive.
At last Goodnight stopped reading. Yet something in his attitude warned the listeners that he was not finished. Whatever came next must be real important. So they waited in silence and he continued, but with a grimmer emphasis.
‘If any member of the crew kills another, he will be tried by his companions and, if found guilty of murder, hung on the spot—’
‘Hung!’ repeated Burle Willock, the word bursting out in a startled pop.
‘I’ve never shot a man on the trail,’ the rancher replied.
Being aware of the stresses and strains to which a trail crew found themselves subjected, Goodnight had found the last article a stout deterrent to trouble. The threat of hanging carried a grim finality that went far beyond that of being shot. Only criminals, murderers, horse or cow thieves and the like were hung. It was a death of disgrace. So the men would be inclined to think twice and decide wisely, Goodnight hoped, when they knew the fate awaiting them if they broke the article.
‘Any man who doesn’t agree with the articles needn’t sign them,’ Goodnight said after the rumble of comment at the last article had died away. ‘But if he doesn’t, he’ll not be coming on the drive.’
‘They’re fair enough for me, Colonel,’ Ahlen declared and walked forward.
‘By cracky, I’m on,’ announced Dawn’s tall, gangling, tow-headed younger brother crowding up on the big blond’s heels.
Man after man followed, each writing his signature or making his mark on the master copy and his own sheet of the Articles. Even Dawn signed, calmly ignoring the rancher’s cold-eyed disapproval and oblivious of his attempts to will her into a change of heart.
