The Floating Outfit 21

by J. T. Edson

  “It’s your camp,” Dusty replied. “Do you know much about guns?”

  “Only the general principle of how they work.”

  “Like I just told Miss Vaza, I’d sure get at least one was I you.”

  With that, Dusty collected his saddle and brought it to the side of the fire. Taking his cleaning gear from the warbag, he asked for and was granted permission to use the table while working.

  “You would advise us to obtain weapons?” Adek inquired. “What kind is best?”

  “Every man to his own taste, but I figure the Army Colt’s about as good a revolver as you can buy,” Dusty answered, deftly stripping the gun he used to defend himself against Latter and the marshal.

  “It appears to be a simple mechanism,” Jarrel commented, watching the removal of the few screws which allowed the Colt’s works to be stripped.

  “Simple and sure,” agreed Dusty. “Trust old Colonel Sam’s boys for that.”

  “Colonel Sam?”

  “Colonel Samuel Colt. He died back in ’62, but his company keep up the standard he started. Doesn’t he sell arms in your old country?”

  “No.”

  “Happen he knew that, he’d take the first boat there. My Uncle Devil’s told me about Colonel Sam, reckoned he was some salesman. When I said he’d take the first boat, I meant he would while he was alive. His boys from the Hartford factory don’t miss many bets in that line either. I’m surprised that none of them have been to your country.”

  “The journey would be too difficult,” smiled Adek. “Is the other weapon also made by the Colt factory?”

  “The carbine?” Dusty said, surprised that anybody should express such ignorance. “No. That’s a Winchester, which’s to rifle companies what Colt is to the handgun makers.”

  “May I examine it?” asked Jarrel.

  “Reckon I’d best unload it first,” Dusty answered. “I have to clean it.”

  “We have so much to learn,” Vaza remarked. “Of course, we were not meant to come, but the—”

  She stopped abruptly, her face swinging towards Adek. To Dusty it seemed almost as if the man gave some unseen signal which prevented the girl from going any further. Clearly Adek did not want too much saying about his party’s presence in the country. Being a man who could respect another’s wishes, Dusty did not press for information. After cleaning his Colts, he unloaded the Winchester, explained its mechanism to Jarrel and gave it a thorough cleaning.

  “I reckon I’ll turn in,” Dusty remarked after finishing the cleaning and reloading the carbine.

  “And so will we,” Adek replied. “Where will you sleep?”

  “By the fire.”

  “In the open?” gasped the girl.

  “I spend more nights that way than in my bed,” grinned Dusty. “Don’t worry none about me, I’ll be all right. It’s a fine night.”

  “I suppose it is,” agreed the girl and looked up at the star-dotted sky. “I wish you good night, Dusty.”

  “Good night, Miss Vaza.”

  After the girl walked to the wagon and disappeared inside, Dusty spread his bedroll out. The two men said their good nights and walked to the wagon, also entering. A few moments later, just as Dusty was thinking that they would be unlikely to share the inside with the girl, they emerged carrying blankets and made their beds under the wagon. Collecting his paint, Dusty led it closer to the fire. He dropped a couple of logs on to the dying blaze and then stretched out on his bed. With the gunbelt under the blankets and his carbine resting against the saddle he used for the pillow, Dusty settled down to sleep. Before dropping off, Dusty gave some thought to his companions and wondered who they were, where they came from, but could reach no decision. Still pondering on which European country might be so difficult to reach that the far-travelling salesmen of the Colt or Winchester companies failed to find it, Dusty went to sleep.

  A snort from the paint woke Dusty. Twisting around in his blankets, he found that the fire had died down somewhat, but it still gave out enough light for him to see all he needed. He read a certain significance in the way his horse rose to its feet, extending its neck and shaking its head as it looked across the clearing. Even as he followed the direction in which the horse stared, Dusty reached for the waiting carbine. He knew just what he would see, and did not need to hear the low grating snarl which came to his ears to understand what disturbed the paint.

  Just at the edge of the fire’s flickering glare, devil’s face twisted in a snarl which showed the long canine teeth, body crouched with rippling muscles tensed for a spring, long tail lashing from side to side, was one of the large, pale fawn, short-coated cougars common to the Great Plains country of the North-Central United States. The cougar must have been a young tom, Dusty judged from its size and the fact that it committed the folly of making its stalk on the camp with the wind at its back. Now it crouched and tried to gather sufficient courage to make a charge through the firelight and at the horse.

  Thoughts tore through Dusty’s head. He knew his skill with the carbine, but did not wish to cut loose on the cougar unless sure his first bullet would kill. While a cougar could not be classed with the jaguar—which occasionally came over the Rio Grande and into Dusty’s home country—in the danger line, one wounded was unpredictable. It might run, or just as easily make a determined charge. Tangling with a wounded, two hundred and twenty pound cougar was not Dusty’s idea of a pastime. Yet he knew he must do something—and fast—before all the horses spooked to hell-and-gone, injuring themselves badly in their attempts at flight while hobbled.

  “Yeeagh!”

  Letting out as blood-thirsty a rebel war screech as he ever managed when raiding a Yankee camp during the War, Dusty thrust himself from his bed. He whipped the carbine to his shoulder as he rose, ready to shoot should it become necessary, and hoping that the Great Plains cougar reacted in the same manner as the very large, grayish variety he knew from back home in Texas.

  Fast though Dusty moved, he still had the carbine only half raised when there was no further need for it. Turning in a single fluid motion, the cougar took off in a long bound which carried it away from the light and into the welcome blackness beyond. Just one crash told of its arrival among the bushes, a brief rustling, then silence.

  Lowering his carbine, Dusty went towards the paint. Swiftly and gently he calmed his horse and directed a glance towards the travelers’ wagon team. Much to his surprise, he saw that not one of the four animals showed the slightest concern or fear; even though they, like the paint, must have caught the cougar’s scent as it stalked them.

  “Is something wrong, Dusty?” asked Adek, peering from under the wagon.

  “A cougar came, but it’s gone now.”

  “Did you say a cougar?” called Vaza, her tousled little head appearing at the end of the wagon.

  “Sure,” agreed Dusty. “I’ve frightened it away.”

  “Oh, why, Dusty? I would have so liked to study it.”

  “Likely,” he grinned. “Only it was fixing to study our horses. I figured that my need was greater than his.”

  “I suppose so,” the girl smiled back. “There is no chance that the cougar will return?”

  “Happen he does,” Dusty growled, “I’ll make sure that you get a chance to study him real close.”

  With that Dusty prepared to go back to bed. First he made up the fire, piling the wood carefully to give the maximum length of burning time. Then he made a circle of the area so as to leave his scent around. Few predatory animals in a reasonably civilized area would come too close to the hated scent of human beings. A glance towards the paint told him that the scare had left it and it was settling down again, while the four team horses still showed the stolid unconcern which so puzzled him. After a final word of reassurance to the travelers, Dusty went to his bed and slid between the blankets to return to sleep.

  Dawn came without further incident or return of the cougar. Dusty woke and stirred in his blankets, thinking wistfully of daybreak
with the trail herd. Already the cook would have built up the fire and there would be coffee bubbling in the pot for the awakening crew. Under the present conditions, he knew that he must rise, build up the fire and wait until water heated before being able to take a hot drink.

  Automatically his eyes swept the camp, finding nothing to disturb him. The horses stood grazing and seemed to be in good health. None of the travelers had made an appearance yet, so Dusty rose. He made up the fire and carried the coffeepot to the stream, tipping its contents away, rinsing it out and filling it with clean water.

  “Good morning, Dusty,” said a voice as he returned to the fire and set the coffee-pot on the edge of the flames.

  “Morning, Adek,” he replied. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Very well considering that I am unused to doing so on the ground.”

  Dusty wondered where the old man had slept on the previous nights of their journey, for it seemed unlikely that they managed their route so as to end each day in a town. Before he could satisfy his curiosity, he saw Vaza swing lithely down from the wagon. Clad in the same gingham dress, she left off her sun-bonnet and golden blonde hair framed her beautiful face. Dusty thought that discarding the hat was an improvement and admired the graceful manner in which she moved, for she showed a remarkable agility in leaving the wagon.

  “Good morning, Dusty,” she greeted. “Thank you for fetching the water. I will cook breakfast while you attend to your horse.”

  “That’d be best,” he replied. “You wouldn’t like my cooking; I know I don’t.”

  Leaving the girl to her chores, Dusty went across to his paint. He unbuckled the hobbles, muttering a grim warning of what he would do happen the horse caused fuss with the wagon team, and allowed the big stallion to go to the stream. By now it ought to have become accustomed in some measure to the other animals and less likely to want to try conclusions. Turning, Dusty found that the two men were with their horses and went to help them.

  Speaking gently, he approached one of the team from the side and, when sure he had gained the animal’s confidence, bent to remove the hobbles. With that done, he began to check on the horse’s feet. Although he expected some resistance to his handling, the horse gave none, but allowed him to raise the foot he gripped.

  Something of a surprise awaited Dusty. He expected to see the usual misguided care; a neatly dumped foot with smoothly pared sole, heels opened out, frog trimmed to a symmetrical neatness. Instead he looked down at a strong, natural, although rougher-looking hoof, its sole appearing flaky and frog large and ragged. In view of the current line of thought on horses’ feet, Dusty wondered where they found a blacksmith enlightened enough to know the insidious nature of the ‘improvements’ perpetrated as normal practice.

  Such was Dusty’s interest in the natural condition of the foot, that the shoe did not attract his attention for a few seconds and he failed to grasp the significance of what he saw immediately.

  In every respect the shoe appeared to be normal enough with plenty of cover from the web, calks raised on the toe and heel as one might expect in a draught animal that required something to give a firmer grip on the ground when starting or taking a load up a slope.

  However, Dusty felt puzzled as he looked down. The shoe appeared to have been placed on recently, for it showed no sign of wear, not even on its calks—and this after at least a hundred miles of travel from the last place where they could have found a blacksmith.

  On checking, Dusty found that all the shoes showed the same remarkable state of preservation. By the time he had finished, Jarrel came to his side.

  “Is all well, Dusty?”

  “It sure is. That’s mighty tough iron you use for shoeing though.”

  “It is.”

  “I see you folks don’t go for paring the sole or trimming the frog.”

  For a moment Jarrel did not reply as if he appeared to be translating the English terms into his own language. Then he nodded gravely. “We have found that it is best left so.”

  “And me,” Dusty admitted. “Did you find any trouble in persuading a blacksmith that it’s best?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You sure had luck. I usually have to force the issue when I’m on the trail. Down home, my uncle’s the smith and I’m lucky, he agrees with me. Fact being, it was him who first showed me about the damage all the paring does to the horse’s foot.”

  “He was a discerning man.”

  “Sure, but there aren’t many like him about.”

  “We have no need to concern ourselves on that score,” Jarrel stated. “Our team was shod before we left home and will last us for our journey.”

  “Breakfast is ready,” called Vaza from the fire, preventing Dusty from asking how shoes put on in Europe could still look so new, or inquiring how much longer the travelers would be moving before they reached their destination.

  “Come,” Jarrel said, smiling. “Vaza does not like to be kept waiting.”

  “I’ve yet to meet the woman who does,” Dusty replied, feeling a little annoyed by the smile. It almost seemed that Jarrel read his thoughts, enjoyed his puzzlement, but wished to keep him from raising the matter.

  In the range country a man did not pursue a conversation when shown that the other party wanted it dropping, so Dusty said no more. Yet the hardness of the iron and the almost unbelievable lasting qualities of the shoes added another mystery to those already surrounding his companions.

  “You go and eat, Dusty,” Adek suggested. “Jarrel and I will ready our wagon for moving.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Dusty asked.

  “I think not. Besides, Vaza would like a chance to talk with somebody other than we two.”

  Came to a point, Dusty could not think of a single objection to finding a chance to speak with the girl—not that he tried very hard. Leaving the horses grazing, he walked over to where Vaza set plates on the table. Breakfast consisted of ham and eggs, with more of the excellent coffee the girl brewed. Dusty gave up trying to think how the girl turned out meals of surprising quality over a wood fire and using the simplest methods.

  After discussing the cougar’s visit, with the girl showing a lively interest and some knowledge of the animal’s habits, Dusty found himself looking forward to travelling in the company of the trio for a time and wondered how he might suggest it without risking giving offence.

  “We would be pleased for you to accompany us,” the girl remarked.

  Only by exercising all his will-power did Dusty avoid letting his surprise show. For the second time in a very short period it seemed that one of the travelers could read his thoughts.

  “Well,” he said. “I like company and hate riding alone ”

  “And we need somebody to look after us,” Vaza smiled.

  Again the girl appeared to have followed his line of thought, for he had been concerned over their lack of armament and horse-savvy.

  “I wouldn’t have put it that way,” he told her.

  “Of course not, you are too polite.”

  “You wouldn’t want to put that in writing, would you?” Dusty grinned.

  “Why?” asked Vaza, sounding startled.

  “So that I can show it to my trail crew next time we meet up.”

  A puzzled expression came to the girl’s face, puckering her brow in an attractive manner. At last she shook her head and turned her luminous eyes to Dusty.

  “I am afraid that I do not understand you.”

  “It was a joke—and not a very good one.”

  “Could you explain it?”

  “Well, a trail boss doesn’t have time to be polite—and rarely has the inclination when he’s concerned with trailing a herd of around three thousand head of ornery, mean-minded long-horns north to the railroad.”

  “Longhorns?”

  “Texas longhorn cattle. Just about the most awkward, vicious, cross-grained critters the Good Lord ever made. Comes to a point, we didn’t start the breed, but took it over fro
m the Mexicans along with the country.”

  “You must excuse my ignorance,” the girl warned. “You see, I am a naturalist, but know so little about your wor—country. That is why I came, to study the animal life. So if I ask many questions—”

  “It will be my pleasure to answer them, ma’am,” Dusty replied soberly, but the twinkle in his eyes brought a merry smile to her face. “Do you mind if I ask a few in return?”

  “It will be my pleasure to answer them, sir,” Vaza countered.

  While talking, Dusty watched the men. Although they handled their work competently, neither seemed as adept at it as might be expected. He noticed that they omitted several small, but important details in their preparation for the day’s travel.

  “Adek and Jarrel do not do their work properly, you think, Dusty?” asked the girl.

  “I didn’t reckon it showed,” he answered.

  “But you ” she began, stopped and shook her head. “I guessed it from the way you looked.”

  “I’ll never play poker again,” Dusty said. “Did you lose your driver?”

  “There was a slight accident and the party who should have come met with injury. That is why we came. I was the only naturalist aboard, so had to come; although I am not experienced.”

  “Then you’re not members of a religious sect travelling to join your people?”

  “Oh, no. Why did you think that?” Vaza replied. “The young man in Bainesville had the same idea.”

  “It’s the clothes, you wear,” Dusty explained. “Mostly Quakers, some Mormons and members of other small religious groups dress that way. “

  “I see. And do people object to such groups?”

  “In some places. Those bunch back in Bainesville weren’t worried about what religion you follow, they just wanted to raise fuss.”

  “And you?” smiled the girl. “Do you object to people who don’t follow your beliefs?”

  “Way I see it, a man’s free to believe what he wants and worship how he wants; as long as he doesn’t try to force his ways on me.”

  “You are a tolerant man, Dusty.”