by J. T. Edson
The muleys soon formed themselves into a group for mutual protection, bedding down clear of their horned kin, and foraged separately. Bringing up the rear, the weak, foot-sore or plain lazy animals formed a lachrymose bunch which needed to be constantly urged on by the drag riders.
Everybody on the drive worked hard from sun-up until late in the afternoon. Even after that most of the hands faced a spell of riding the night herd. The cook and his louse might have things easy during most of the day, but made up for it by being the first of the crew awake every morning. Good at their work, they saw to it that the others were well-fed and kept the coffee on the boil all night for the benefit of the riders coming to or from the herd.
Not only the steers improved with the travelling. All the trail hands gained confidence and experience as the days went by. Dusty watched them all and drew his conclusions from what he saw. Although there was, naturally, some inter-ranch rivalry, it stayed on a friendly basis.
Despite his start, Willock proved to be a good man at his work. He did tend to show off a mite and try to impress the others with his skill, but avoided incidents of the kind which had almost brought him into conflict with Dusty. Only once did his path close with Vern’s; even then only slightly.
Apparently Vern had taken Dusty’s comments of the first night to heart. He still reacted eagerly and showed boyish enthusiasm for his work, but not so much as on the first day of the drive. It seemed that Dawn too had profited from advice, for she might glance in annoyance when Vern acted in what she regarded as an unbecoming manner but never condemned him publicly. Left to himself, the youngster matured fast. He took part in the horseplay around the camp, giving as good as he got. When joshed about his youth, he no longer grew angry and commented instead on the age or senility of his tormentor. Only once did he almost fall from grace.
On the tenth day Goodnight allowed the herd to rest and graze. With Dusty’s permission, Vern left camp on a hunting expedition in the hope of varying their diet. Shortly after noon he returned at a gallop on a lathered horse.
‘I saw some dust shifting down that way, Cap’n,’ the youngster breathlessly announced, pointing along their back trail. ‘And there was something flashing in it.’
‘Best go take a look,’ Dusty decided and ordered some of the men to saddle up fast.
‘Reckon it’s that Hayden feller?’ Vern asked excitedly, having been included in the party.
‘I hope it’s not,’ Dusty replied. ‘Let’s ride.’
Guided by Vern, the party rode east. On their way, they met the Ysabel Kid returning from a circle around the area. The Kid confirmed about the dust and explained the ‘metallic’ flashes seen by Vern. About three miles away a large band of pronghorn antelope were grazing. What Vern had taken for the flickering of the sun on weapons was the flashing of the animal’s white rumps as they signaled to each other in the manner of their kind.
Going back to the camp, the men told what had happened. Willock sneered about the mistake, but had sense enough to keep his comments to himself. All the older hands agreed that the youngster had done the right thing by returning. So their comments about his behavior held no sting. He redeemed himself by resuming his hunting in the late afternoon and returning with a bull elk, the meat of which made a welcome change from longhorn beef.
Having what appeared to be the easiest job on the drive, the Ysabel Kid came in for his fair share of ribbing whenever he appeared at the campfire. Ranging far ahead, or circling the herd at a distance, it was his duty to locate natural hazards, human enemies or any other kind of danger. He also had to report to the trail boss on the condition of the land ahead, so that the route offering the best, easiest travel could be selected.
With the possibility of further trouble from Hayden, the Kid kept an extra careful watch on the rear. Nor did Vern’s abortive alarm cause the dark youngster to relax. However, day after day rolled by with no sign of their enemies. The weather stayed fine and the whole crew was in good spirits.
For all that he covered more miles than any of his companions in a given day, a convention had grown up in the camp to accuse the Kid of spending his time asleep in the shade of a bush and only catching up when sure all the work had been done. When the Kid tried to produce his leg-weary horses as vindication of his true hard-working qualities, Billy Jack countered by fabricating a story about a pretty girl the dark youngster visited each day.
Usually the Kid did not return until well after dark. So Dusty and Goodnight, out ahead of the herd, regarded his appearance with apprehension when he came towards them in the late afternoon of the fourteenth day. Nothing showed on the Indian-dark young face and its owner might have been no more than returning in the normal course of events. Yet Dusty and the rancher guessed that the Kid bore grave and disturbing news.
‘All right,’ Dusty said resignedly as his amigo halted the leggy bayo-lobo xv horse he was using that day. ‘What’s up ahead.’
‘Plenty of good grass, a stream of clear water and a mighty pretty place to bed down just by it.’
‘Now the bad news,’ Goodnight ordered.
‘Saw some smoke ahead a ways,’ the Kid complied.
‘Indians making it?’
‘Could be, Colonel. It was a fair ways off and I didn’t take time to go closer. Figured you’d want to know.’
‘You figured right. What do you reckon?’
‘There wasn’t enough smoke for white folks to be making it. Or for a whole village. I’d say it’s a small bunch. Out raiding seeing’s how they’re down this ways.’
Which meant, as Dusty and Goodnight knew, the braves were on a horse-stealing mission. Not a comforting thought when the herd had along almost seventy good horses in its remuda. During his time with Cureton, Goodnight had gained a considerable knowledge of the Comanche as enemies. However, he was willing to yield to the Kid’s superior wisdom.
‘What’re our chances, Lon?’
‘I dunno,’ the Kid answered frankly. ‘Down here’s the borders of the Kweharehnuh and Yamparikuh stamping grounds. Could be a bunch from either. I’d bet my money on it being Yap-Eaters, not Antelopes, at this time of the year.’
‘The Yap-Eaters’re tough hombres’ Goodnight pointed out.
‘Sure, but us Pehnane were allus closer to ’em than to the Antelopes. Happen it’s either band and not just a bunch of tuivitsi on their lonesome, I might be able to get us by them. It’ll likely cost us some cattle, and maybe a few of them extra hosses I asked you to fetch along.’
‘It’ll be worth them to get by without fuss,’ Goodnight stated. ‘Only a bunch of hot-headed young bucks aren’t likely to listen to reason.’
‘Nope,’ agreed the Kid. ‘But, happen them tuivitsi’we got a tehnap along, he might be.’
‘Can you get up close enough to talk, even if there is one along?’ Goodnight asked, knowing that even tehnap, experienced warriors, were inclined to shoot first and ask questions a long ways second when dealing with white men.
‘I’ve got my medicine boot along,’ the Kid answered. ‘When they see that, they’ll sit back and listen.’
‘You want to handle it alone?’ asked Dusty.
‘Nope. I’d like to have you along to talk for Colonel Charlie. There’s another thing, you mind how them renegade Tejases took on when they saw what our new Henrys could do?’
‘I sure do,’ Dusty grinned, recalling how the repeated fire from their Winchesters had scared off a band of Indians while on a mustang-catching trip. xvi ‘It’s likely those Yap-Eaters won’t have seen rifles like them yet either.’
‘Go with him, Dustine,’ Goodnight said, even though he might be sending his favorite nephew to an unpleasant death. ‘Make any kind of deal you have to and I’ll back you on it.’
‘Yo! When do you want to start, Lon?’
‘As soon as we’ve fed, I’d say. Further we are from the herd when we meet ’em, the easier we can dicker.’
Accompanied by Dusty and the Kid, Rowdy speeded up his team a
nd made for the site selected as their night’s campground. There he and his louse broke all records in producing a meal. So well did they work that Dusty and the Kid rode out of camp just as the first of the night watch came from the herd.
‘Back to four of us on night herd,’ Willock muttered sullenly, watching the Kid and Dusty pass by. ‘There’s something in the air!’
‘What’s up, Rowdy?’ inquired Raymar of the Flying H, having seen the decorative buckskin case across the Kid’s bent left arm. ‘What’s Lon got that medicine boot on his rifle for?’
‘Had he?’ countered the cook and raised his eyes piously to the sky. ‘So help me, I never noticed.’
‘There’s something bad wrong!’ Willock insisted.
‘That stew don’t smell no worse’n any other night,’ Spat Bodley objected. ‘And if it’s anything else, we’ll likely get told soon enough.’
However the four men had to return to their duties with curiosity unsatisfied. Goodnight gave them no more than the usual orders before following the rest of the crew to the camp. There he addressed the party at the fire and warned them what the Kid suspected.
‘Comanches!’ Dawn breathed.
‘Shucks, they don’t fight at night, sis,’ Vern protested. ‘Everybody knows that.’
‘They may not fight, but they move and raid in it,’ Goodnight warned him. ‘Only, afore you start looking for war-whoops behind every rock, I don’t reckon they’re close enough to make fuss for us tonight. Sure, I know I doubled the guard. I’d sooner have you all out riding the night herd and see nothing than get two men jumped and the cattle scattered.’
‘Uncle Charlie’s got a real kind heart,’ Red whispered to Dawn. ‘You’ve just to look real hard to find it. Most of my uncles’re like that.’
Despite his comment, Red fully agreed with Goodnight’s precautions. So did the rest of the listeners. Throwing a glare at his nephew, the keen-eared rancher continued with his orders in case of an attack.
‘What repeating rifles have we along?’ Goodnight asked, wanting to make sure he knew the correct figure. ‘All my boys’re carrying Spencers, down to Rowdy and Turkey—’
‘Up to Rowdy ’n’ Turkey,’ corrected the cook, a privileged member of rangeland society. ‘That’s the right way to say it.’
‘I’ve a new Henry,’ Mark announced.
‘Pappy let me bring along our Henry,’ Vern went on, not without a touch of pride. ‘But Dawn’s only got her old scattergun.’
‘It’s a right handy tool though,’ Dawn continued tolerantly.
Altogether the party could muster twelve repeating rifles and carbines, the rest of the crew being armed with muzzle-loaders, single-shot breech-loaders or just their hand-guns. Quickly Goodnight arranged the positions of the trail crew so that the repeaters would be evenly shared between the swing, flank and drag. Should the Indians come looking for trouble, the flank and swing riders on each side were to join their respective point man at the head of the herd. The drag hands and wranglers had orders to gather at the wagons. That way there would be controlled groups of defenders delivering volley firing instead of scattered individuals shooting.
‘Hey, Colonel Charlie!’ Rowdy Lincoln suddenly hissed. ‘There’s somebody moving out there to the east.’
Chapter Seven – This Is Why You Won’t Take Our Cattle
Having wanted mounts which they could trust and rely upon under any conditions, Dusty had collected his big paint stallion from the remuda while the Kid whistled up his magnificent white. From his war-bag in the bed-wagon, the Kid had produced a long, heavily fringed buckskin pouch decorated with medicine symbols. With that on his rifle, it told all who knew the Pehnane that he belonged to the Dog Soldier lodge. So any insult or injury inflicted upon him would bring reprisals from the rest of that savagely-efficient fighting brotherhood.
With a good meal inside them and a reserve of pemmican in case of emergency, the two amigos wasted no time in heading across the range. Two miles beyond the herd, the Kid brought his horse to a halt as he wished to take certain added precautions before visiting the Comanche camp.
In addition to gathering the medicine boot from his gear, the Kid had donned a pair of Pehnane moccasins. Clearly he did not intend relying on such a flimsy disguise. Dismounting, he handed Dusty the buckskin-encased Winchester, removed his gunbelt and hung it across the white’s saddle. Then he stripped off his hat, shirt, bandana and levis. That left him clad only in the moccasins and a breechclout of traditional Nemenuh blue. Formed of a length of cloth drawn up between the legs and passed under a belt at front and rear, with loose-hanging flaps trailing almost to knee level, the garment served him instead of conventional white man’s underclothing and allowed a rapid transition to an Indian warrior when necessary.
Stripped of his cowhand regalia, the Kid looked almost completely Indian. Nor did the gunbelt lessen the likeness after he buckled it on. Many a brave-heart warrior wore such a rig, looted in battle. Satisfied with his appearance, he made a bundle of his clothes and fastened them to the saddle’s cantle. Catching the rifle Dusty tossed to him, he vaulted astride the white’s seventeen-hand high back.
‘Let’s go,’ the Kid suggested. ‘This way, happen any of ’em see us, they’ll be more likely to talk first.’
Holding their horses to a fast, mile-devouring trot, they rode to the west. Night came, but the Kid had seen enough of the suspicious smoke to have fixed its position firmly. Despite the darkness, he led the way in as near a direct line as possible. After about three hours’ riding, he signaled Dusty to stop.
‘It’s not far ahead now, so you’d best stay put until I’ve been in and let ’em know how things stand.’
‘Go to it,’ Dusty replied. ‘Only if they’re all tuivitsi, you come back here pronto.’
‘You can count on it,’ the Kid assured him.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Wait here. I’ll move in on foot. Watch ole Thunder and come up with him when he starts moving. He’ll soon enough let you know if there’s anybody sneaking around. Should there be, try to settle ’em without too much noise.’
‘Is it all right if I whomp ’em on the head with my carbine?’ Dusty inquired, sliding the Winchester from its saddleboot.
‘’S long’s you do it polite and thank ’em for letting you,’ replied the Kid.
With that the dark youngster dropped from his horse’s back. He landed and disappeared into the blackness with the minimum of sound. Cradling the carbine on his left arm, Dusty remained astride the big paint. At his side the white stallion stood like a statue, only its raised head, pricked ears and constantly moving nostrils testifying to its alertness as it sought for any warning scent or sound.
Advancing on noiseless feet, the Kid looked no less wild and vigilant than his horse. He came across no guards, nor expected to find any despite the increasing evidence that reached his ears of the Indians’ presence in the vicinity. Almost half a mile from where he had left Dusty, he received his first sight of their quarry. Reaching the lip of a draw, he looked down its gentle slope at the fire which had sent up the smoke that brought him from the herd.
A touch of relief crept over the Kid at what he saw, along with a feeling of satisfaction at having his judgment verified. There were only men around the fire on the bottom of the draw. Not more than thirty of them, stocky, medium-sized and wearing clothes made from buckskin, elk hide, but not antelope. Naturally the bulk of the party consisted of tuivitsi, young, comparatively inexperienced warriors. Yet the Kid could see sufficient tehnap and a war-bonnet chief present to ensure that his medicine pouch would be respected and himself allowed to speak unmolested. They were a well-armed band, if a touch low on firearms and with no repeating rifles. By their dress, they came from the Yamparikuh band, not the Kwe-harehnuh.
Continuing just as quietly down the slope, the Kid halted while still in the darkness. So far none of the party gave any sign of being aware of his presence, but he wanted to announce himself be
fore appearing.
‘Greetings, men of the Yamparikuh,’ the Kid called, speaking the Pehnane dialect perfectly. ‘I come in peace to your fire.’
At the first words, several of the tuivitsi sprang to their feet and reached for weapons. None of the tehnap moved and the chief showed no sign of agitation, accepting that only a member of the Nemenuh could come so close undetected.
‘You may come,’ the chief replied.
Given permission, the Kid walked into the fire’s light. He heard several startled comments as the men saw his tall, slim, un-Comanche figure coming out of the night. However the Nemenuh had adopted enough captive children into the tribe, turning the boys into warriors every bit of ‘The People’ as if they had been Comanche-born, for the Yap-Eaters to accept his bona-fides. And that was a Dog Soldier’s medicine pouch covering the visitor’s rifle. Halting before the chief, the Kid raised his right hand in the peace greeting.
‘I am one called Pinedapoi,’ the chief introduced. ‘Are you Nemenuh?’
‘My grandfather is Long Walker of the Pehnane,’ the Kid answered. ‘I am one called Cuchilo.’
‘You speak an honored name. Long Walker is a respected chief of our people. And I have heard of Cuchilo.’
‘The fame of Pinedapoi has reached my ears,’ the Kid countered politely.
‘It is said you are a white man now,’ a leathery tehnap put in.
‘I have friends among the white men and live in their lodges,’ the Kid admitted. ‘But I am still Nemenuh.’ He paused to see if there would be a challenge to his statement. None came and he went on, ‘My blood-brother waits in the darkness, wishing to speak with the chief and braves of the Yamparikuh. He is a name-warrior among his people. His name is Magic Hands.’
