by J. T. Edson
‘You mean on foot?’ he asked. ‘Walking?’
‘Nope. Running!’
The horses were moved up and down before Dusty, allowing him to see them in their various paces, making sure there was nothing wrong with them. He doubted if anything would be wrong. Trader Schell would only bring the best to the OD Connected. The check was a matter of form. Ole Devil expected it, so did Schell.
When the horses stopped Dusty walked in front of the appaloosa again and stood rubbing his jaw, giving Billy Jack a few anxious moments. The miserable one knew Dusty’s sense of humor might call for another session of trotting, a thing which would do Billy Jack’s already aching feet no good at all. With this in mind Billy Jack gave out a warning.
‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth.’
‘Why sure,’ agreed Dusty. ‘But we’re buying this lot, don’t forget. They’re not gifts, so it doesn’t count.’ He watched the anxious expression on Billy Jack’s face for a moment, then grinned. ‘They’ll do, put them in the other corral. Lane, bring in that dun. Tex, I’ll have that bay coyote there.’
Billy Jack and Kiowa led off the two horses, turning them into the empty third corral and Dusty went to look over the next pair of horses. Dusty went on with his work, ignoring the bellow from Ole Devil that we wouldn’t buy such a useless bunch of trash and Trader Schell’s assertion that he was damned if he wouldn’t take the next lot of horses and sell them to the Yankee cavalry, where they’d be appreciated.
Horse after horse was caught and brought for Dusty’s inspection. He and Red worked fast, but they worked with care. Any inattention to his work might mean Dusty missed something and would bring down a bitter rebuke on his head, the more bitter because it would make Ole Devil break off his dickering. Dusty knew that, even while arguing at full pitch, Ole Devil was watching the horses with care and missing nothing.
Of all the horses only one was not suitable and Schell had given his men orders to leave it, but somehow it became mixed with the others. He was annoyed but knew Ole Devil accepted his apology.
The price was finally agreed upon as the last of the horses were checked. Ole Devil snorted and swore he’d bring his next bunch in from a Yankee dealer and Schell growled back that the loss he’d taken on the sale would put him out of business so it wouldn’t bother him. The price was what they both knew from the start it would be, although Schell held out for the Yankee general’s dress sword and the Springfield carbine with the bust magazine spring as boot.
Dusty gave orders for the branding of the horses to begin, then turned to Schell.
‘Have they been three-saddled yet, Trader?’ he asked.
‘All of them,’ was the reply. ‘All bar the paint.’
‘Why not him?’ inquired Old Devil.
‘Because I’m a red-blooded Texas coward and I aims to keep all my blood inside where it belongs, not outside where it shows. I’m sorta modest like that. It took us near on all one day to get shoes on that hoss.’
The words gave Dusty and Ole Devil a warning of what to expect from the big paint stallion. Trader Schell and his men made their living riding and busting bad horses. It took one out of the ordinary to worry them. They’d three-saddled the rest of the animals, ridden each horse the three times which any bronc-buster would before claiming it was gentle enough to be handed on to the cowhand, but they left the big paint alone. Despite Schell’s words Ole Devil and Dusty knew a try had been made to ride the big horse. If Schell’s men could not handle the horse it would take a good man to stay a’fork it.
The paint was a challenge and Ole Devil was never the man to resist a challenge. The big horse would make a fine stud, even with the rangeland prejudice against paints as working mounts. So he meant to have the paint although he was going to make a good haggle over the price.
When the deal was concluded, even as the branding fires were lit and the OD Connected irons heated, Ole Devil invited Schell to finish the deal on the porch. Calling Dusty along, the owner of the ranch led the way to the cool shade of the porch. A pair of big redbone hounds lay sprawled out in the shade, pounding their tails in welcome but making no effort to move as the men came up. Dusty grinned and gently stirred the bitch with his toe, she beat her tail harder but made no move to get up so he stepped over her and took a chair.
Tommy Okasi, Ole Devil’s Japanese servant, materialized from inside the house with a tray bearing glasses, a bottle of burgundy and a bottle of beer. He handed out the drinks and withdrew again. Dusty poured out his beer and sat back in his chair.
‘Fair bunch of hosses, Trader.’
‘Good as I could raise. The Ronde River bottoms are swarming with wild hosses just waiting to be brought in. There’s a helluva lot of buffalo-wolves up there. I made a fair price on wolf skins from my last trip. Aim to go up that way again as soon as the boys have spent their pay and are ready for work.’
‘Got us some old cock turkeys in the Rio Hondo brakes that are bigger than buffalo-wolves,’ remarked Ole Devil. ‘Doc Gorman and Hondo aim to come out at the end of the week and take us a hunting trip. You feel like staying on?’
‘Nope, I’ll come back on Saturday and move out with you if I’ve done my business. Want to sell off the culls from your bunch to the Yankee cavalry.’
Billy Jack slouched up at that moment, his face smudged with grime from the branding fire. He jerked a thumb towards the Polveroso trail and said, ‘We got some callers, Devil.’
Chapter Two
Three men were riding towards the house, coming along the trail from the county seat. Trader Schell studied them and gave an angry snort as if he recognized them, although he did not offer to say whether he did or not.
The three men rode good horses but none of them looked like cowhands and one definitely was not. He rode slightly ahead of the other two, clearly leading them, not riding as a friend. He wore a high crowned, snow-white hat of a style rarely seen in Texas. His hair hung shoulder long and was combed, showing considerable attention had been taken with it. His face was tanned, his mustache big and flowing, his short pointed beard showing the same care as did his hair. His eyes were hard and spoiled a handsome face, the hardness of them was one of cruelty. It gave him the look of a man who would get his own way or pull every dirty trick until he did. His clothes caught the eye, the long fringed, bead decorated buckskin jacket, the snow-white shirt and the black bow tie were not the dress of a working cowhand, nor were the skintight trousers placed carefully into the top of his shining boots. Around his waist was a fancy looking gun belt and a pearl handled Army Colt rested in the Missouri holster, the whole of the trigger guard exposed to the view. He rode a fine looking, yet nervous sorrel horse, his saddle a silver decorated rig which had cost plenty and from under his leg rose the butt of a Henry rifle, the barrel nickel-plated instead of being blue.
There was something about the man which Dusty took a dislike to right away. It was partly the dandy dress, partly the arrogant way the man looked around him. Mostly it was because of the horse. That man would never break a horse with kindness, he would always use the most cruel method he could find. The ghost-cord and the long lashed whip would be his way.
The other two were good on their horses, but they were not cowhands. Dusty could read the signs, he knew cowhands and those two never worked for any brand. Their clothes were a hybrid mixture of Army and civilian such as many men wore with the War so recently over. Both wore low-tied guns and looked hard citizens but that did not worry Dusty Fog. He was by way of being a hard citizen himself when there was need for it.
Passing the branding fires and the scene of cow land industry they brought the horses to a halt in front of the ranch house. The fancy dressed leader of the trio glanced at the breaking pen and the big paint stallion which stood in it, then turned his eyes to the men on the porch. His voice was loud, bombastic and arrogant as he spoke:
‘See the paint’s still about, Trader. How much do you want for him?’
Trader Schell frowned at this br
each of hospitality. The man had no right to come discussing business with him on Ole Devil’s property. There was no friendship in his voice as he replied:
‘You’re too late, Covacs. I’ve sold him to Ole Devil here.’
‘That so?’ the man called Covacs asked, turning his eyes to Ole Devil. ‘I’ll give you fifty dollars on top of whatever you paid for the paint.’
‘He’s not for sale,’ growled Ole Devil, annoyed at the breach of etiquette. The man should have waited to be asked to dismount before trying to do business. He was too hospitable to hold back the next words. ‘Light and rest your saddles.’
Dusty watched the three men and wished he was wearing his guns. He rarely, if ever wore his gun belt when working around the ranch house and none of the crew were armed, although Schell was still wearing his gun.
‘All right,’ Covacs grunted. ‘I’ll make it seventy-five on top of whatever you paid for it. In gold.’
‘I said he’s not for sale,’ replied Ole Devil in a tone which indicated the matter was closed.
‘Look, General,’ Covacs went on, seeing the ranch hands watching him. He knew whose ranch this was and knew that behind him was probably as tough a ranch crew as a man could find in the West. There was no chance of rough stuff to get the horse. ‘I run a travelling show. You may have heard of it, Colonel Blade Covacs’ Circus Giganticus. I want that paint to bill him as the horse that nobody can ride.’
‘And I want the horse myself.’
There was nothing Covacs could do in the face of such an answer. His eyes went to the breaking pen, feasting on the huge paint stallion. There was a horse in a thousand. Such an eye-catching horse, suitably treated, could be turned into a vicious and most unmanageable killer, a horse that no living man would be able to ride. The paint showed every sign of being able to uphold such a title, it had the size and strength without being slow, awkward or passive.
There was no way of getting the paint legally for Ole Devil owned it and would have his brand burned on its flank soon, shoving to the world who owned it. There was no taking the horse by force either. Three men could not hold down the OD Connected ranch crew and horse stealing was a hanging offence anywhere west of the Big Muddy. Covacs knew this and he gave way on it.
‘All right, it’s a pity,’ he said, a shifty gleam in his eyes. ‘Do you have any more horses to sell, Trader?’
‘Nope!’ replied Schell, making it plain in that one word that even if he did he would not sell any to Covacs. ‘I just sold Ole Devil all I’ve got to spare and won’t have any more until I go out again.’
‘Up to the Ronde River country where you got the paint?’ inquired Covacs, resentment and annoyance showing plain in his tones as he mentioned the big horse.
Trader Schell was noncommittal. ‘Might be, might not.’
‘I may see you up there,’ grunted Covacs and turned to leave.
‘Water your hosses and go up to the cook shack for a meal, if you like,’ Ole Devil growled. ‘Billy Jack, come and show these hombres the cook shack.’
Covacs nodded although he gave the impression that he thought he should be invited on to the porch for a drink and his food. He could see that no such invitation was likely to be forthcoming so went with his men.
‘Man’d say you don’t like that hombre, Trader,’ Dusty remarked as the three men followed Billy Jack towards the cook shack.
‘I can’t say I do, although he never done me no hurt. He was up in the Ronde River bottoms while I was rounding up those hosses. Was hunting for wild hosses himself but he didn’t know much about it. Got set on that paint stallion and was a mote riled when I caught it. Thought we’d have some trouble with him, but my boys outnumbered his. I left one day while he was out after a bunch of broomtails. He’s a bad mean cuss with a hoss and I didn’t want him to have his hands on the paint.’
‘What’s he do for a living?’ Dusty asked.
‘Like he says, runs a tent show. Ran it all through the War and I don’t know where he got to be a colonel. His show’s as crooked as they come from all I heard. I reckon he wanted the paint to do just what he said.’
Ole Devil’s eyes went to the paint. It was a fine horse, too good to be turned into a vicious killer to enrich the owner of a tent show. Ole Devil was a hard and stern man but he was never cruel and would never allow any cruelty in breaking a horse of this brand. His men all respected him for it, they knew his remuda was good and aimed to keep it that way. The paint would never be a remuda horse but at least at the OD Connected it would lead a useful life and not be turned into a vicious killer hating all men.
The three men rode off soon after, followed from a distance by Billy Jack, Kiowa and another hand who were on Dusty’s orders to see Covacs and his party well out of the OD Connected house’s immediate range. Dusty was a suspicious young man and did not trust Covacs, having seen the way the man looked at the big paint.
Covacs knew of the escort and ignored it. For one thing he did not plan any move to get hold of the paint—yet. The other reason was that the three Texans were all armed. Covacs was no fool. The laws of the West were hard, direct and very sensible in the dealing with horse-thieves. There was no pleading first offence and receiving a small sentence. A horse-thief was hung on the spot, if he wasn’t shot, for in a country where to be without a horse was to be in danger of death, horse stealing was classed as murder and treated accordingly.
So Covacs rode on. His tent show was some forty miles to the West, well over the Rio Hondo county line. Hondo Fog, sheriff of Rio Hondo County would never stand for the crooked play of the tent show and Covacs did not believe in taking chances, not when there were other towns not so well policed waiting to be fleeced.
‘Are they still after us?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ grunted one of his men. ‘Naw, they ain’t. They stopped up on that rim back there. Be able to watch us for miles.’
‘Let ’em,’ Covacs replied. ‘The fresh air’ll do them good. They’ll go back and tell Hardin we’ve gone. We’ll leave a couple of weeks so they forget, then one night come back. One way or another I’m going to have that paint.’
Back at the ranch the branding went on fast. The men were all experts and the horses passed through their hands in rapid succession. Each horse was caught, thrown carefully to avoid hurting it, then the glowing, red-hot brand was applied to the rump, leaving the mark by which all men knew Ole Devil Hardin’s cattle and horses, OD Connected. The two letters O and D, the side of the O touching the straight bar on the D.
It was an exciting business, for the horses were anything but friendly when they got to their feet and several of the hands had narrow escapes. The big paint gave most trouble of all, but finally that too was branded. It would have been a brave man who would have gone into the breaking pen to the horse when it was released. The paint stood snorting, clearly promising the first man who did come in that he would not walk out again. Ole Devil watched the horse, knowing it was as good as he’d ever owned. The big paint was going to make a first-class stud and a fine go-to-town horse, a fine and eye-catching mount for him—if he could ride it.
The following morning Ole Devil ate a light breakfast and left the house. His coat and hat lay on the porch, his trousers were tucked into sharp toed, high-heeled cowboy boots. From his wrist hung a quirt, a foot long, woven leather whip, the short handle weighted with lead. This was not to beat the horse with, but to knock it back to its feet if it reared up and looked like falling over backwards.
The first thing Ole Devil saw was that the men were saddling the horse in the bronc stall which was attached to, and opened into, the breaking pen. The bronc stall was a narrow enclosure, just wide enough to allow the horse to enter and have a saddle slipped on. It was something the cowhands rarely used, only the most dangerous of horses being accorded such treatment. That Dusty was using it for the big paint warned Ole Devil of the stormy times ahead.
Dusty waited until Red fixed the blindfold over the paint’s eyes, then made a fi
nal check that the saddle was firmly girthed home. He led the big paint out and knew that the horse was only waiting, not accepting the fact of being saddled as a sign of man’s mastery. That Trader Schell’s men had rope- and saddle-broke the horse was plain to Dusty. It did not fight a mounted man’s rope and accepted the saddle, taking both calmly as if saving up every ounce of strength and energy to deal with any man fool enough to try and sit that saddle.
Ole Devil went forward, ducking between the thick pole rails of the breaking pen and walking towards the horse. The breaking pen was the smallest of the three corrals, the one where bad horses were ridden, horses which could not be handled on the open range. In the center of the pen a ten-foot long, strong post was buried half its length and firmly packed home in the soil. This was the snubbing post, a bad horse could be snubbed down to the post when necessary, tied firmly to allow safe handling. With a normally bad horse the snubbing post would have been used for the saddling, but not with the big paint.
‘Let me take him, Uncle Devil,’ Dusty suggested eagerly, longing for a chance to ride the big horse.
Ole Devil shook his head, smiling grimly. He could not allow any man, even his segundo, to ride the big paint until he made a try at it. That was Ole Devil’s firm rule, never to ask a man to do anything Ole Devil could not do himself. He went to the paint and nodded to Red, who ducked out of the corral. Only Dusty was left inside with Ole Devil and the horse, for when the rancher mounted there would be all hell uncorked and the fewer men to duck out of the corral the safer it would be. Dusty stood holding the horse’s head while Ole Devil checked the double girths and made sure everything in the saddle and bridle were set safe. There was no implied censure of Dusty’s work in the move. It was one which Dusty and all the watching men approved of, one they would have taken had they been in Ole Devil’s shoes.
‘Want me to take the bedsprings out’n him first, Devil?’ called Billy Jack.
