by J. T. Edson
‘Why’re you going west, Ma’am?’ asked Dusty, watching Keep coming back with the revolver.
‘My kin all went north when the War started, but I stayed behind to do what I could for my country and my beliefs. After the War, up north I was an asset to them. I was Elizabeth Van Bruwer, the Union Spy, someone who brought credit to the family. Then they came south to go into politics and I was no longer an asset, I was something to be hidden. It would do a bright young politician no good to have a Union spy for kin. So I was put on this train, sent west for my health. The folks thought my name was Brewster and called me Grandma. I didn’t argue with them. It was so good to be accepted, to have people speak to me that I did not mention my real name. Well, you know who I am now.’
There was silence, uneasy silence now. Anse Keep was trying to get through the crowd with the revolver and the news of what he’d seen, or failed to see in the Holman wagon.
Mrs. Evans moved forward, passing her husband to stand by Elizabeth van Bruwer and look at the crowd. Her southern drawl was gentle and not loud, yet it carried clear around the circle.
‘Mrs. Keep, I think the ladies’ sewing circle meets at your wagon tonight. Grandma Brewster will preside at it as usual.’ There was a low murmur of approval from the other Southern women and Anse Keep’s wife moved forward to side Mrs. Evans, her New England accent backing up the Southern woman’s words.
‘Anse Keep, finish your business, then don’t stop too late playing poker with Tapley Evans. But don’t come to our wagon unless you’ve been playing.’
The tension left the air. The men could see that their women were as one in the determination not to allow Civil War hatreds to break up the train. Tapley Evans stepped to Elizabeth van Bruwer and touched his hat brim.
‘Ma’am, the War ended in sixty-five. We can’t undo all the years down south, but we’ll try.’
Anse Keep came through the crowd and went to Brant holding out the revolver. ‘That’s it, Major. Never saw one like it before. But for a man who was half-blind he could sure shoot without his spectacles.’
‘Did you see what color his eyes were, mister?’ asked Dusty.
‘Couldn’t see all that well, but they looked to be light blue, pale eyes,’ Keep replied and looked at the letter Dusty held towards him. ‘What’s that?’
‘The description of a man who killed five Texans in the Fair Lady saloon in Mulrooney. A man who used a ten-shot, pin-fire revolver.’
Anse Keep read the letter and the description. He nodded his head and passed it to Tapley Evans.
‘I think you got your man, Captain Fog.’
~*~
The following morning Dusty was by the side of ‘Grandma Brewster’s’ wagon. He had just come from watching the floorboards of the Holman wagon torn up and a hundred Winchesters with ammunition for them brought to light. He climbed into the van Bruwer wagon and looked at the scared pallid face of Mrs. Holman, who lay in the bed.
‘Are you going to take me back?’ she asked weakly.
Dusty smiled. ‘Why’d I do a fool thing like that, ma’am? You aim to go to California, not back to Kansas.’
‘You work for a sheriff, don’t you?’
‘Only for one thing, ma’am. And I’ve done that. Can you tell me for sure if Joubert went into Mulrooney that night you were camped nearby?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, looking at Major Brant and Elizabeth van Bruwer, who were now in the wagon. ‘He went on in and got into bad trouble. He told Hogan about it, been a bad shooting. You going to try me for murder, Major?’
‘No, ma’am. There’ll be a coroner’s jury, but it’ll be brought as self-defense. Help Captain Fog all you can.’
‘Joubert run into a man who used to work with them when they were running arms to the South in the War. They went to some saloon to kill a bunch of Texans. Joubert was scared that somebody’d come after him.’
‘How about those rifles, ma’am?’ Dusty asked.
‘We fixed to leave the train and sell them to a half-breed. This’s the sixth trip we’ve made. Hogan fixed to leave the train in a couple of days and meet up with the renegade. Now I don’t know what I’ll do.’
Elizabeth van Bruwer smiled gently. ‘That’ll be all for now, Captain.’
Dusty was satisfied. He would take an affidavit, signed by Major Brant and other men in the train, to the effect that the men who killed the five Texans were dead. Clay Allison would be satisfied by that, there would be no trouble in Mulrooney. Standing by his big paint stallion Dusty looked at Elizabeth van Bruwer and thought of the other time they met. To his rear the Kid sat his big white stallion ready to head back to Mulrooney and their friends.
‘Well, Captain,’ she said smiling at him. ‘We’re going our separate ways, and I doubt if we’ll meet again. It’s strange, but both our meetings involved the same man.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Dusty agreed, mounting his horse and touching his hat to her. ‘I read something somewhere, I don’t remember where. The mills of the gods grind slow, but they grind exceedingly small.’
Elizabeth van Bruwer watched Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid riding up the slope, headed back to Mulrooney, then home to Texas. A small man riding by the side of a tall man. But she’d never think of Dusty Fog as small.
Part Three – The Paint
Chapter One
The horse stood alone in the breaking pen, smallest of the three pole-walled corrals before the OD Connected ranch house. It was a magnificent horse, seventeen-hands of uncut, uncurried, savage beauty with the small, shapely head and graceful, proudly arched neck of a thoroughbred. Its mane and tail were long and flowing, the mane snow white, the tail a deep, rich deer-red. The powerful quarters, firm, straight back and the great barrel of body told of stamina, power and strength. Yet for all of that there was no hint of cloddiness or slowness about the horse, nor was there any sign of spindly long-legged growth. The horse was perfectly proportioned for its great size. In color it was white, with splashes of deep deer red, a paint and a beauty in any man’s book. Standing alone and proud it seemed to tower over the horses in the next corral like a giant among pygmies.
The paint caught Ole Devil Hardin’s eye as he came from the porch of the OD Connected house and walked down to the corrals with Dusty Fog and Red Blaze at his sides. It took his full attention for all of a minute, before he even looked at the other horses which awaited his expert inspection.
The War was long over and Ole Devil was back in the Rio Hondo country, preparing to get the OD Connected ranch on its feet after years of fighting and neglect. Before anything could be done, the great round up he and Dusty planned, or any of the other numerous tasks started, the remuda must be rebuilt and given fresh blood.
So word went to a horse trader to bring along the best he could manage and he came fast, ready to greet his oldest and favorite customer. His speed in coming, with the best he had to offer, was not only due to his desire to sample some of Ole Devil’s good gold, it was a genuine friendship. Ole Devil was buying and that was all Trader Schell needed to know. Ole Devil asked for the best, be it stud horse, brood mare or plain remuda gelding.
A ranch could be made or broken by its remuda, the band of saddle horses which supplied mounts for the cowhands of the spread. Ole Devil ran a remuda of well over a hundred horses and, before the War, everyone was potentially a good cow-horse. Everyone must also be a gelding, that was a firm rule of any remuda, and for good reason. Mares were not used in the remuda as they were likely to become bunch-quitters, pulling out of the remuda and heading for home. The trouble then was that no self-respecting he-horse would think of letting a lady go home unescorted and the remuda found itself shy, not only of the mare, but of several horses. Stallions were not used due to their habit of fighting and otherwise stirring up a peaceable remuda.
A horse was put into the remuda when it was around four years old. Two years later it could be considered a trained cow horse but did not really reach its full value until it was ten years old. Under
normal conditions the remuda would be culled out before each spring round up, the old horses, or those proved to be unsuitable for one reason or another, would be taken out and either turned loose to graze or sold off.
The three men who ran the OD Connected ranch went to the second of the large corrals and looked at the bunch of horses which milled around in it. Red Blaze’s elder, twin brothers ran a ranch which bordered the OD Connected, but he preferred to stay and work with his Cousin Dusty and be at the center of things in the great Hardin, Blaze and Fog cattle empires. Dusty was ranch segundo, second-in-command to Ole Devil and was tipped as being the one who would succeed Ole Devil to leadership of the clan.
Trader Schell watched the three men approaching with a delighted grin on his face. He was a plump, yet somehow rubbery looking man in working clothes. He did not look to be, but was, one of the finest horse-busters in Texas. His one interest in life was horses, catching, busting them and trading them off. It was said he’d rather not sell a horse than let it go without a long dicker over the price. Today he would need his top skill, for he was up against a master at the horse-trading game. Even though both he and Ole Devil knew the price which would be paid, in fact the money was laying ready in Ole Devil’s gun-decorated study; they would have a long haggle before the price was reached. Trader Schell’s visits to the OD Connected were the high spots of his life, he looked forward to them like a child looked forward to Christmas.
‘How’d they look to you, Devil?’ he asked.
It was like the start of an often-seen but well-liked play. Schell, Hardin, Dusty, Red and the assembled OD Connected hands could have said the words and given the answer from long experience.
‘Fair, not better’n fair. When you fixing in to bring me some decent stock in?’
Ole Devil liked the look of the horses and knew he’d have been hard pushed to find better, but he wouldn’t think of letting Schell know. That would spoil all the anticipated fun. This was to be a battle between two master traders, even though the prices were a foregone conclusion.
Being the buyer it was to Ole Devil to make the first move. His play was to act as if he’d never seen such poor horses, that he couldn’t care whether he bought such a poor lot or not. He snorted, his facial expression showing the disgust he felt at the offering in the corral.
‘Where the hell did you pick ’em up from? Some mange-covered Digger Indian?’
Schell’s own facial expression was something to see. A mixture of annoyance and exasperation at the slander on his stock, pride in his horses and complete indifference to selling the bunch to Ole Devil. He started to extol the many and varied virtues of the horses spreading on every emphasis he could think to their superb breeding and capabilities. To hear him it would appear he was doing Ole Devil a great favor in offering the horses for sale at all.
All in all it was a masterly display and one which could have made many a professional actor jealous. The hands of the ranch were all gathered listening, grinning and nudging each other at every move in the lightning-fast cut and thrust of the trading match.
Dusty was only half listening, storing up pointers for the future. His main attention was on the horses as they circled and milled in the corral. In his capacity as ranch segundo Dusty would have much to do with the remuda, almost more than Ole Devil himself. He’d looked the big paint over and so far it did not come into his calculations at all. It was a fine horse, would make a good stud, but it was a stallion and would never run in the remuda.
So Dusty’s horse-wise eyes studied the horses, picking the rough mounts in his mind. They were the horses which would take the most handling and would form his personal mount; the Texan never used the term string for the horses assigned to him for his work on the ranch. It was a mount and could run from three, on a small ranch to a dozen on a spread the size of the OD Connected.
A hand selected the horses for his mount in a choosing match and was bound by his pick. Not even the boss could interfere with a man’s selection for his mount. If he cared for the horses the man was left with them, if he did not he would soon know about it and if the boss changed a horse in a man’s mount it was taken as a hint that his services were no longer wanted.
Dusty would take the rough string, the fighters and the horses with a good big belly-full of bedsprings. He took them because he was the segundo of the ranch and would never ask a man to ride a horse he could not sit astride.
Schell decided on a change of tactics and set up a crafty distraction, which was one of the reasons he brought the paint along.
‘Now there’s a hoss for you, Devil,’ he announced modestly. ‘Just about the finest stud I ever come across. Run faster’n a Nueces steer, swim better’n a black bass and jump higher’n further than a cougar. Now, I ain’t the one to boast—’
‘Never yet saw a paint as was worth sic ’em as a working hoss,’ replied Ole Devil, eyeing the big horse with a disdain he was far from feeling. ‘They always work slow, never learn how to cut and handle cattle and they fight the bit.’
‘Not this’n,’ protested Schell and launched into a vivid description of the paint’s good points.
‘Color don’t count if the colt can’t trot,’ growled Ole Devil, using an old range saying. ‘That paint looks a mite spavined to me.’
Schell raised his eyes to heaven as if seeking strength to defend himself against such a libelous attack on his horse. Then, as if despairing of talking any sense to Ole Devil he turned to Dusty.
‘What do you reckon to the paint, Cap’n?’
‘Too big for a cow hoss,’ replied Dusty, no mean hand at the trading game himself. ‘Tell you though, I’ll give you a Yankee general’s dress sword for it, and chance being robbed.’
‘I wouldn’t even take it as boot for the deal,’ grunted Schell. Boot was some article thrown in over and above the final reached price in a trading deal and went to the winner of the deal. ‘How about you, Red?’
‘I’ll give you all of five dollars and a Spencer carbine with a bust magazine spring for it,’ answered Red. “Then I’d be overpaying you. I suppose the paint’d be all right for riding into town on.’
Schell grinned and winked at Ole Devil. Young Red’s voice sounded just right, like a man who finally, after much thought, found something the big paint would be useful at. The two boys were learning real well, considering they’d been fighting Yankees for most of their growing years. Give them a few more years of watching Ole Devil in action and they’d be all set to trade with the best in the land. Schell chuckled and, feeling refreshed with the change of topic, turned his attention back to the remuda horses.
Dusty watched the battle begin once more and caught Ole Devil’s nod. He knew full well what the nod meant and ignoring Ole Devil’s bellow that such a mangy wind-broke bunch of crow-bait was no use to him, turned to the corral. He watched the horses milling for a moment then turned to the watching hands.
‘Kiowa, snake out that line-back and let’s take a good look at it,’ he said, jerking his thumb towards a dun gelding with a black stripe running the length of its back. Then he looked at Billy Jack who lounged by the corral side, rope in hand. ‘Happen you can land him, Billy Jack, I’d take it kind if you’d bring that appaloosa in.’
Billy Jack’s miserable expression intensified at having work thrust on to him. He swung up on to the rail and watched the horses moving by him. Despite his appearance Billy Jack was a roper second to none. He could make that sixty-foot length of three strand, hard plaited manila rope come alive in his hands. Men who’d seen Billy Jack perform with a rope swore the only thing he couldn’t do with it was make it stand straight up in the air, climb up it and vanish from the top.
The horse Dusty called for came around in the milling group. It was a big, washy bay horse; the color fading to almost white at the rump which was splashed with black spots; it showed a lack of hair on the inside of the thighs and in the tail, the nose was pinkish and there was a lot of white in the eye. The horse was an appaloosa, a ty
pe bred and raised by the Nez Percé Indians. They were a northern tribe which never came into Texas, so Dusty wondered how such a horse came to be in the bunch. He would never have thought of asking.
Billy Jack watched the horse, measuring the distance with his eye. Then the rope came alive in his hands, making one fast whirl up to the right, over his head and sailed out in a well-timed, accurate hooley-ann throw. It was a roper’s throw much used for taking horses from a milling bunch, made with the minimum fuss. A small-loop head catch which enabled several men to take horses at the same time. The loop flew true and Billy Jack watched the honda sliding, tightening the circle as it flew. His talented wrists caused the rope to turn and flatten out above the appaloosa’s head, then drop gently over it. Billy Jack twitched the rope and tightened the noose until there was no chance of the horse slipping it again. With his horse caught Billy Jack slid down from the rail and led it through the partly opened gate.
Dusty and Red went to the two horses and examined them thoroughly, checked eyes, teeth, condition of coat, hooves and made sure everything was all right. There was no fooling about or slacking in the work and both the young men knew what they were doing. Finally Dusty looked at the horses holders.
‘Trot them up and down a piece for me.’
Billy Jack groaned at the order, even though he knew it would come. He was a cowhand, regarding any work which could not be done from the back of a horse as being fit only for farmers or Yankees.
