Faced with proof that Dusty’s ‘fool notion’ worked, Goodnight did not hesitate to put it to further use. In the days while Wardle, Jones, Colburn and Hultze returned to Mineral Wells, gathered their steers and got them headed towards Young County, the Swinging G men placed out hides, poured blood on the ground and learned much about utilizing the blood call as a means of rounding up cattle. Goodnight saw the size of the shipping herd grow far faster than it would have by any conventional method he might have tried.
Not all the attempts were as successful as the first. There had been times when the gory earth and bloody hide evoked no response; or the blood call from the reliable, decoy steers failed to produce any of their wilder kin. Experiments taught the men that, from their point of view, the blood and hide of a cow had a better effect than that of a bull or steer. On occasion bad luck, or bad management, caused the assembled cattle to take warning and flee before the trap closed on them. Once an over-excited Austin forgot his orders and lost them what would have been a good gather by bursting out of concealment recklessly and spooking the longhorns. Another time, a poorly positioned cowhand—it was Loving’s companion, Spat—was spotted by a wily old ladino, which cut loose with a shattering bellow of warning as it fled and frightened off other cattle headed for the bloody hide.
Yet there had also been times when all went well. Sufficient of them, in fact, for the herd to regain its original numbers by the fifth day after the Mineral Wells ranchers’ departure. Of course the ladinos needed constant watching, and there were flurries of activity when determined efforts were made by individual steers or groups to escape; but for the most part they settled into their new environment in a satisfactory manner.
All of the ranch crew found work in plenty during the five days after the Mineral Wells’ ranchers’ departure. While the cowhands gathered cattle, Rowdy and his louse attended to collecting food and supplies for the six-hundred-mile journey, or saw to it that the two wagons were in perfect working condition. The two wranglers and nighthawk who would handle the sixty-strong remuda went over every horse, learning the habits of as many of them as possible and making sure all kept in the best of health. For three days the local blacksmith, helped by Billy Jack and one of Goodnight’s men, made up and fitted cold shoes to the horses. These, known as ‘good-enoughs’, would be carried in barrels on the bed wagon, to be used for emergency replacements on the trail.
What with helping on the blood call round-ups, riding his turn at night guard on the herd and helping Goodnight with the organization. Dusty had less time than anybody else for leisure. Yet always at the back of his mind lay the memory of the stampede and his thoughts on why it had been caused. So he kept a wary eye open for further attempts at preventing his uncle gathering enough stock to fill the contract.
‘I make it five hundred and ninety, Dustine,’ Goodnight commented at noon on the fifth day, as they watched a further twenty steers added to the herd. ‘We’ve covered the losses, with a few over, thanks to your “fool notion”.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Dusty replied, flushing a little with pride at what, for Goodnight, was high praise. ‘No word from Mineral Wells yet, though.’
‘It’s early yet. Mark’ll probably send the Kid as soon as they know something. Why don’t you ride back to the ranch and see if he’s come?’
‘Isn’t there anything I can be doing here?’
‘Nothing that we can’t tend to. While you’re at the house, ask Rowdy if he needs any more supplies.’
‘Yo!’ Dusty said. ‘We could send somebody along the Mineral Wells trail to see if they’re coming.’
‘We’ll do it tomorrow,’ Goodnight promised.
Having been engaged on the unexacting task of riding circle around the shipping herd, Dusty sat a light dun gelding he was training to take its place in his mount. The horse was still fairly fresh, but he did not rush it as he started in the direction of the main house. Riding along at a leisurely walk, he kept alert and constantly searched the surrounding country for signs of danger. His every instinct warned him that Goodnight’s enemies had not given up. Not having seen anything to disturb him did nothing to lessen his suspicions.
So he came to a halt as he saw a rider appear among the bushes on a distant slope. While he had left his bedroll at the ranch house, he still carried the little Winchester carbine in the saddle boot. Reaching down, he coiled his fingers around the wrist of the carbine’s butt. The rider came to a halt at this first sight of Dusty, then he removed his hat and waved it vigorously overhead. After looking back over his shoulder, the man started his horse moving in the small Texan’s direction. Dusty replaced the half-drawn carbine as he recognized the other.
‘What’s up, Spat?’ Dusty inquired as they came together. ‘Did you find any cattle up on the north ranges?’
‘A few bunches, mostly cows and yearlings like Colonel Charlie figured,’ Spat replied, having been sent to make a search in case the morning’s attempt came to nothing.
‘That won’t matter,’ Dusty assured the other. ‘We’ve got all we need.’
‘Saw a feller just a short ways back.’
‘Know him?’
‘Nope,’ Spat admitted. ‘Way he was sneaking along, I figured he didn’t want no close looking at. He wasn’t a cowhand, that’s for sure. Maybe an Army deserter. He was a lean cuss, wearing a sword—’
‘And a buckskin shirt ’n’ coonskin cap?’ Dusty interrupted.
‘Sure. Only he’d got a sword on his belt, and was wearing cavalry pants, so I figured—’
‘You must’ve been riding the herd on the night before the stampede, I’d say.’
‘Sure I was. Why?’
‘If you hadn’t been, you’d likely have recognized that feller. He was one of the three who caused it.’
‘Damn it, Cap’n Dusty!’ Spat growled, his voice brittle. ‘I didn’t know that. When I saw how he was dressed, I took him for a deserter. Allowed he’d not want anybody to know which way he was going and stayed out of his sight rather than chance starting a shooting fuss.’
Knowing the severe punishments inflicted by the Army on its recaptured deserters, Dusty appreciated Spat’s point. A man desperate enough to chance going over the hill might try to kill rather than leave a witness who could guide the Army to him. So Dusty considered that Spat had acted correctly in not permitting Scroggins to know he had been seen.
Dusty also guessed at the reason behind the brittle, wary tension shown by the cowhand. Ever since Loving’s death, Spat had wondered if his motives and personal courage were in question over the incident. Although nobody had even hinted as much, Spat still wondered if things might have gone differently had he stopped to help his boss and Sid defend the cave. So Dusty had noticed a growing tendency for the cowhand to get touchy at the slightest hint, even one made unintentionally, that he might be showing undue caution in times of danger.
‘You did the right thing,’ Dusty told him. ‘If there’d been shooting, we’d’ve wasted time and risked the herd coming out to check on it. Besides, this way we can likely track him to where he’s going and find out why he’s hanging around.’
‘You want me along?’
‘Way I look at it, this’s more than a one-man chore. And, anyways, you must be able to read sign better than I can. You sure can’t be any worse at it.’
‘And I know where to start to look.’
‘Sure. Let’s go.’
With that Dusty allowed Spat to take the lead and they rode across the range. Clearly the cowhand had gathered considerable experience in such work; no great surprise, as even those Texans who did not fight on one side or the other during the War gained knowledge of stalking and using concealment against the various enemies which existed in the State.
Keeping to cover as much as possible, Dusty followed Spat to the place where the cowhand had seen the man. Despite Spat’s ideas on the matter, Dusty felt certain that the intruder had been Scroggins. No deserter—fond as he might be of the cavalry’s arme-blanche—would retain such an obvious piece of military equipment as a saber. The weapon would attract too much attention his way.
‘He come from that way,’ Spat said, halting and pointing to the south-west. ‘Herd’s down there, but maybe two miles off.’
‘Likely he could find some place to watch us from without much chance of being seen.’
‘Not closer’n half a mile,’ Spat protested.
‘That’d be close enough for him to see how we’re doing,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘And if he’s been around since the day of the stampede, he’ll have a fair idea how well we’ve done.’
‘Where do you reckon he’s going?’
‘To tell his pards and his boss what he’s seen. Let’s see if we can find out, shall we?’
‘I’m all for it,’ Spat growled. ‘We owe them stinking sons-of-a-bitch something for all the extra work they’ve caused us.’
Setting their horses moving, Dusty and Spat headed to the north. For all his earlier comments, Dusty could read sign well enough to figure the man they followed had gone out of his way to avoid being seen. After covering something over a mile, however, they found that he had put aside his caution and rode along openly.
‘Likely he’d not be expecting anybody up this way,’ Dusty commented, ‘with us getting all our cattle from the south and west.’
‘If him or his pards know cattle, they’d figure that,’ Spat replied. ‘We combed this section for steers in the first place, to save doing any more brush-popping than we had to.’
‘Maybe he’s not expecting being seen,’ Dusty said. ‘But we can’t count on it. From now, it’s us who use the cover.’
The country through which they travelled offered itself ideally to unseen movement, being broken up by draws or gullies and dotted with clumps of trees. While they found little difficulty in following the tracks, they could not do so at better than a walking pace.
‘This’s no good,’ Dusty remarked after a time. ‘We’ll take too long to catch up to him unless we can go faster. I don’t want to get too far from the herd, just in case it isn’t the feller I think it is.’
‘We can’t go faster and read his sign,’ Spat pointed out.
‘No,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Say, are there any caves up this way big enough for two or three men and their horses to hide in?’
‘Never come across one, and I know this section pretty good.’
‘Uncle Charlie doesn’t have a line cabin up here?’
‘Never needed one. Hey though! There’s an old mustangers’ camp about two mile off, on Bluegill Creek. Just a shack, a barn and a corral, all of ’em in poor shape. Cattle don’t get up that ways often enough for us to bother rebuilding.’
‘That’d be a good place to try looking, though,’ Dusty decided. ‘Far enough from the herd to cut out the chance of any of the crew coming around. But close enough for them to keep an eye on how we’re doing. We’ll head up that ways and take a look.’
‘What if he’s not there?’ Spat inquired.
‘Then we’ll get back to the herd as fast as we can,’ Dusty replied. ‘We’ve got to give Uncle Charlie enough time to get ready for trouble.’
Nodding in agreement, Spat changed direction and selected the shortest route to the old mustangers’ camp. They rode at a faster pace, but still used caution. Which proved to be fortunate for them.
Coming to a halt, Spat pointed to horse-tracks crossing the route they took and joining a well-used trail ahead. To Dusty, the story stood plain enough. Whoever had ridden that way had made a roundabout route from watching the herd. Probably he had taken a different line each day, once beyond the point they were approaching. By doing so, he would avoid leaving too plain sign of his presence in the vicinity of the cattle.
Advancing with even greater care, Dusty and Spat climbed their horses up a slope. According to the cowhand, the valley on the other side ran parallel to Bluegill Creek. Dusty knew better than to ride blithely over a rim under the prevailing conditions. So he and Spat slowed their advance and looked over before showing themselves fully. Two riders came through the trees on the opposite slope, men Dusty had good cause to remember. At a sign from the small Texan, Spat withdrew from the rim and Dusty joined him.
‘One of ’em’s the feller I saw, Cap’n!’ the cowhand stated.
‘It’s Scroggins right enough,’ Dusty agreed. ‘And Turner with him.’
‘What’re we going to do, Cap’n—’
‘Hide and jump them when they come close enough. I reckon that they can tell us some interesting stories, asked right.’
Swinging from their saddles, they led the horses behind some nearby bushes. While securing his reins to a branch, Spat looked at Dusty and asked, ‘How do we play it, Cap’n?’
‘I want at least one of them alive, both if we can,’ Dusty replied. ‘So we’ll Injun up on to the rim and try to find places where they’ll go between and throw down on them as they pass.’
Quickly Dusty completed the fastening of his horse. If he had been riding the paint, merely letting the reins dangle would have been enough. Less certain of the dun gelding, he took no chances. With the horse secured, he slipped the carbine from its boot. Owning only a single-shot Enfield muzzle-loader, Spat had not carried it along from the ranch house. However, he had his holstered Colt to fill his needs. If his small companion’s plan of campaign worked, there would be no need for the long-ranged, somewhat cumbersome rifle.
On reaching the head of the rim, they peered over cautiously. From all appearances, Turner and Scroggins intended to stick to the trail which repeated passages to and from scouting the herd had formed. Dusty opened his mouth to tell Spat they would make their ambush where they were. The words were never said. Bringing their horses to a halt, the proposed victims turned and looked back in the direction from which they had come.
‘Scrog, Al!’ called a voice and a man appeared on the opposite rim, urging his horse down to where the pair waited. ‘You’d best come back. The boss’s headed down to see us.’
‘Who’s he?’ Spat whispered.
‘Luhmere,’ Dusty answered. ‘Spat, amigo, we’re in luck.’
‘Do we take ’em?’ asked the cowhand.
‘Not from up here,’ Dusty decided. ‘As soon as we let them know we’re about, they’ll either fight or run. Nope, there’s only one thing to do.’
‘I’m game for anything,’ the cowhand stated.
Dusty doubted if Spat would be game for what he was going to order, but went ahead just the same.
‘Go get your horse and head back—’
‘Back!’ Spat growled, his voice rising above the whisper it had employed up to that moment.
‘Hold it down!’ Dusty hissed. ‘Yeah. Go back to the herd and ask Uncle Charlie to send some of the boys.’
‘Damn it!’ Spat began. ‘If you reckon all I’m good for—’
‘You did the right thing with Oliver Loving!’ Dusty snapped back. ‘So, for the good Lord’s sake do it right now. You know this range, which I don’t. So you can get there and back faster than me.’
‘What’re you planning to do?’
‘Trail along after them—’
‘We could both go.’
‘That’s no answer, Spat. There’re three of them we know about, likely another one at least brought the word about the boss coming. And I reckon he won’t be travelling alone. That makes too many for us to handle without counting a whole heap too much on luck favoring us. No, we play it my way.’
At any other time Spat would have admitted that Dusty made right good sense. Only the memory of how he had gone for help and left two friends to die fighting the Comanches caused him to argue. Yet he could see no wavering on Dusty’s face and so gave in. Nor did the fact that Dusty was Goodnight’s nephew affect Spat’s decision. He knew the big man at his side had a fighting reputation second to none and the ability to plan well. More than that, Dusty was picking the part he could handle best.
‘I’ll be back with the boys, Cap’n,’ Spat promised.
‘And I’ll be waiting,’ Dusty replied. ‘Take my dun and ride relay. I can handle the trailing best a-foot.’
Slowly, reluctantly, Spat followed Dusty from the rim. Already the other men had started to ride back up the opposite slope and were almost at the top. So Dusty was eager to get after them. In case he should lose them, he asked for and received instructions on how to locate the deserted mustangers’ camp.
‘Can’t I—’ Spat continued, after finishing his description.
‘No!’ Dusty stated firmly and took a box of bullets for his carbine from the dun’s saddle pouches. ‘You’re doing the only thing that’ll help. Now move out and don’t stop to pick daisies on the way.’
Giving a resigned shrug, Spat freed and led off the horses. He took a final look at Dusty, hoping to see signs of a change of heart. None showed, so he swung astride his mount and led the dun away with him.
Watching the cowhand go, Dusty wondered if he should have collected more bullets for his revolvers. The paper cartridges used in the 1860 Army Colt did not travel well, stuffed into a pocket, being liable to rupture and ruin in the event of violent movement. Loading with loose powder and ball was possible, but far too slow to perform in the heat of a gunfight. So he figured that he had made the right decision and could rely on the carbine’s twelve-shot load backed by a full box of fifty metal-case bullets.
Carbine in hand, Dusty turned his thoughts to following the men. Already they had passed over the other rim and gone from sight. For all that, he advanced with care and made use of whatever cover he could find. Going up the opposite slope he found that the trio had gone beyond his range of vision. He did not try to catch up with them, knowing that to do so a-foot and wearing cowhand boots—designed for riding, not hiking—would be impossible. Nor was there any need to take such measures. According to Spat’s description, the trail along which the men were riding led to the deserted mustangers’ camp and had, in fact, originally been made by them. So Dusty could follow it with the expectancy of discovering his quarry at the end.
There were numerous times as he walked that Dusty cursed his boots. Yet he did not allow the increasing ache in his feet to wipe away his caution. He saw no sign of the trio but at last the camp appeared through the trees. Set on the banks of a small stream, in the open bottom of a valley, it consisted of the buildings Spat had mentioned. Beyond the stream, the wooded land started again. All of the trio’s horses stood before the cabin but none of the men were in sight. From what Dusty could see, it would be inadvisable to let the other side enter the cabin. Both it and the barn had been built to last and, while dilapidated, offered mighty effective defensive positions.
Continuing his cautious advance, Dusty decided on a change of plan. Instead of waiting for his companions to arrive, he would attempt to slip up unseen and capture the trio. Doing so would not be easy, but was preferable to letting them and whoever was coming have the cabin to hide in when Goodnight’s men arrived.
About to move closer, Dusty found himself looking into the muzzle of a Sharps rifle that appeared from behind the trunk of a tree ahead of him.