“I TELL YOU, boss lady, boss,” Waggles Harrison drawled at the conclusion of a brief description of the visit to Child City. “There wasn’t a sign of any fuss going on between any of the crews, or not being taken with the notion of us Texans coming in to take over the C Over M. Nor of Jimmy Conlin, him being foreman of the AW, knowing what Korbin tried to pull on us comes to that.”
In the cold gray light of dawn, the segundo was standing by the fire behind the wagon that carried the women and household items, cradling a large tin cup of coffee between his hands with a feeling of satisfaction over the warmth it gave to them. On the other side, a short distance away, Rosita and Miguel Vargas, the Mexican couple who ran the blattin’ cart, and the cowhands who were not occupied elsewhere were gathered in a rowdy group around a larger blaze and eating the food that Chow Willicka served up in copious quantities. Ideas of class and racial distinctions did not cause the Harts to have their breakfast away from the trail-drive crew. Margaret had grown up around cowhands and had heard a variety of profanities inadvertently uttered by them in moments of stress.
Nevertheless, because of past experience, Margaret was aware that—contrary to growing tendency among middle class-middle management “liberals” to employ foul language in mixed company as an indication of a belief that doing so showed a willingness to descend to what they considered to be the usage of those less well educated than themselves in the hope of gaining a popularity that might produce the correct kind of voting in elections—the cowhands never deliberately offended, and invariably felt embarrassed over having inflicted such talk on the ears of a woman. They even attempted to avoid doing so with Rosita among them. Therefore, she, Steffie Willis, and the Mexican woman kept clear of their male companions at this always touchy time of the day.
On this occasion, aware that Waggles wanted to tell the Harts of what had happened in Child City the previous evening and that some of it might be of a confidential nature, the ash-blonde and her husband, who was always expected to join her unless he had not yet been relieved from his turn on the night herd, had gone with Rosita—to join the rest of the crew by the larger fire.
“How’d they take it after Peaceful had took up the toes of that jasper who picked on him?” Stone Hart asked, willing to accept the opinion of his range-wise segundo as being far more likely to prove correct than false.
“Made ’em even more friendly,” Waggles replied. “Feller was a stranger to ’em on all accounts. Leastwise nobody up and said they knew him. Fact being, they reckoned ole Peaceful was right in forgetting his peaceable ways on account of how he got pushed into doing it. Why, they even forgive him for spinning that windy about the grizzly b’ar ‘n’ good ole Georgie Washington’s maw, which takes some doing.”
“Only if it’s been heard as many times as we all have,” Stone drawled with a grin. “Which, seeing as how this was your first time in Child City, they were fortunate not to have heard it even the once.”
“I thought it was very funny,” Margaret claimed. “The first hundred times I heard it, anyways. But, to get back to business, how did the marshal or whoever runs the law there feel about it?”
“Allowed Peaceful did what was best, him not being partial to having to move around jaspers who’ve been sli—!” Waggles commenced. “Anyways, the great seizer acts like he’s a fair man and doesn’t have no Kansas fighting-pimp way of thinking about us Texans. Which being, I’m going to tell the boys to keep that in mind and behave accordin’ when we go into town after getting paid off for the drive. Which, I don’t mind saying, I’m looking forward more’n a mite to. Everybody, ’cepting that poor jasper ole Peaceful abused so cruel, was so mighty friendly ’n’ hospitable it surely was painful to have to light out as soon as we did.”
“Sounds like you had a pretty enjoyable night of it,” Stone remarked.
“I’ve had a whole heap worse,” the segundo admitted. “And I tell you, boss, as well as being mighty helpful with what he told me, that Counselor Sutherland’s as lively company as a man could ask for. Jimmy told me as how he whoops up a storm ’til the last dog’s been hung ’n’ it’s pup’s got shot on what he calls Burns’ night.”
“How did Thorny enjoy it?” Margaret asked. “I heard him going for breakfast, and he sounded a mite peaked.”
“That’s just tired, not ’cause he’s got a liquor head,” Waggles replied. “Give him his due, he stuck to beer and not so many of ’em was offered. Didn’t rile nobody by saying no, neither. They all accepted as how we’d got a long ride back to the herd and it wouldn’t be right ’n’ fitting for the segundo not to be there to get the rest of the crew to working comes sunup. Anyways, he just come out with another of those jokes of his which is even worse than Peaceful’s about the b’ar, and everybody allowed giving him more of it might make them even badder.”
“Not that it’s any of my business, before I get looks that say it,” Margaret commented, eyeing Waggles in an apparently challenging fashion. “But I think he deserves something nice for doing it.”
“And something nice is what he’s going to get,” the segundo promised, showing no offense over the interference with his duties, not that any had been expected.
“And just what might that be?” Margaret inquired suspiciously, her knowledge of the speaker’s sense of humor causing her to draw a conclusion from the way in which the declaration was made.
“Figured I’d send him off with Silent to see if they can pick up any C Over M stock and fetch it with us to be rebranded,” Waggles explained.
“I’ll bet Rosita’s pleased that Silent’s not going to be around for a spell,” Margaret remarked. “She says he keeps hanging around that Hereford calf he claims he saved from five grizzlies, three cougars, twelve of the biggest black bears he’d ever seen, and a jaguar like he was its pappy.”
“Seems to me that li’l calf needed saving from more of ’em every time I hear ’bout it,” Waggles drawled. “Which, if there’s nothing more you want to know, boss, I’ll go ’n’ ’tend to it right now. Blast it, the day’s more’n half gone and nothing ’cept feeding their faces like they’re scared eating’s going out of fashion, has been done yet.”
Nodding his head at Margaret, who guessed this would be done and responded with a quick curtsy, the segundo strolled toward the main fire. As he came up, he discovered that either Peaceful Gunn or Thorny Bush had been recounting the events of the previous evening to the others assembled at it. From what was being said by one of the cowhands, there had just been some reference to the owners of the neighboring ranches.
“Eisteddfod, is that what you’re trying to say?” queried David Montgomery. His Texas drawl had a somewhat lilting timbre indicative of the Welsh origins in which he took great pride.
“Why, sure,” Peaceful confirmed. “That’s how Counselor Sutherland said it.”
“Then the man isn’t Welsh, look you,” Montgomery asserted. “The Eisteddfod is our most sacred occasion, not a family name.”
“Said Counselor did hint such could be,” the mournful-featured cowhand admitted, then turned his gaze to the segundo. “Morning, Waggles, it’s sure nice to see you about so good ’n’ early.”
“This isn’t what I call early,” the segundo growled with mock ferocity. “It’s near to noon, and I thought as how Chow’d started serving a fancy dude lunch.”
“You mean as how you reckon we should be doing something?” Peaceful asked in what appeared to be a solicitous fashion, glancing around to where—like himself—everybody else was close to finishing their breakfasts.
“You just had to ask,” Silent Churchman growled at the doleful one after Waggles had given instructions for the work to be performed. “I thought we’d be allowed to stand about whittle-whanging for at least another hour.”
Seeing and recognizing the man who had appeared as he topped the latest ridge he was traversing, Silent Churchman was not sorry he had drawn his Spencer carbine from its saddle boot on coming across the tracks of what he concluded from the size and other indications were recently made by a good-size deer or even an elk.
The task to which Silent and Thorny Bush had been assigned by Waggles Harrison had proved moderately productive. Only an hour had elapsed and they had gathered almost enough cattle bearing the C Over M brand to make a return to the herd advisable. Moreover, they had found enough evidence to suggest that the range Stone Hart was going to call his own was well-stocked. With that possibility in mind, the stocky cowhand had decided to leave his young companion to hold the gather while he made a quick scout of the immediate area to see if more definite proof would be presented. He had also hoped there might be an opportunity to collect some game meat to make a change from the beef that had been the main item on the menu since the last time hunting had been successfully carried out. The tradition that whoever fetched in a dead animal received first choice of its meat when cooked was a prime inducement.
The last thing Silent would have expected to come across was a member of the bunch of hard cases who had tried to cut the Wedge herd in the vicinity. Having continued to keep a careful watch, Kiowa Cotton had not mentioned finding anything to indicate that they were still around. Not only did the chance meeting fill the stocky cowhand with a sense of grim foreboding, but he was able to identify the man as the one with whom he had exchanged a few unpleasant words as he was passing with the calf headed for the blattin’ wagon.
Going by the response that was given in acknowledgment of his own presence, Silent assumed the recognition was mutual.
Ever since his companions had seen him compelled to “back water” from the smaller Texan while the trail count was forced upon them, Skinny McBride had been the subject of much derision from them. It had rankled to such an extent that he had stated his determination to go back and finish what was intended. His hope of having some of the others accompany him had come to nothing. Even Jeremy Korbin had refrained from making the offer, not that McBride would have wanted him along, since Korbin was sure to claim any credit that might accrue from a successful completion of the scheme.
Belatedly remembering the efficient way in which the Indian-dark and dangerous-looking Texan had prevented them from carrying out their intentions, the scrawny hard case had been aware of the risks he was running. Therefore, he had selected a route by which he hoped to evade the other’s scrutiny and bring him up to the herd from the rear, as it was possible that no danger would be anticipated from that direction. Without realizing that the sensation was mutual, he had been surprised to find himself face-to-face—albeit still at a distance—with the cause of his humiliation. However, he saw a way by which he could produce a result without incurring the added risk of going to the herd to bring it about.
“Hey, you short-growed Wedge son of a bitch!” McBride bellowed, too eager to put his idea into effect to study the stocky Texan carefully. Shifting the Spencer rifle into a better position of readiness across his knees and drawing the hammer back to fully cocked, confident he was too far away for the clicking to be heard by his intended victim, he continued, “What’re you doing out this ways, looking to wide-loop some more of our AW cattle?”
“The boss’s real choosy about what kind of beef he lets come into our herd,” Silent shouted back. “Which being, he wouldn’t give any stock the likes of you’ve had a hand in raising within a good country mile of our’n.”
“You beef heads’d steal anything that wasn’t roped down good and tight!” the scrawny hard case asserted, and began to lift the Spencer rifle toward his shoulder.
Just an instant too late, McBride realized that his intended victim was armed in a similar fashion.
Alert for trouble, and having noticed the hard case’s rifle in a position of readiness, Silent had made preparations for applying defensive measures while the conversation was taking place. Because he had anticipated having to make a speedy shot at whatever animal had made the tracks, both deer and elk being noted for possessing wary natures and a strong disinclination to having human beings anyplace around them, he had coiled the open-ended reins around his saddle horn to allow his hands to wield the carbine. Although he was not riding the kettle-bellied bay that was his favorite, he was confident the spot-rumped Appaloosa gelding selected that morning from his mount was just as steady and suitable for his present needs. He was aware of how much time was needed to bring the Spencer carbine to an operative state, so he was carrying it with its action fully cocked.
At the first indication that the other was planning to commence hostilities, Silent retaliated with the speed of long practice. However, his bullet passed harmlessly over McBride’s head. An instant later, the delay resulting from the weapon’s greater length in spite of the move having been started a fraction before that made by his intended victim, lead from the hard case’s weapon—which he identified as being one of the rifle version of the same make as his own—stirred the right sleeve of his shirt as it winged by.
Each starting the task of reloading his weapon, the two men instinctively nudged their horses into motion so as to reduce the distance at which they would fire their second shots. Although the rifle being handled by the scrawny hard case had the greater potential for accuracy, the carbine held by Silent was less cumbersome; he was also the better-mounted man.
Unused to having firearms discharged so close above its head, the animal ridden by McBride began to fiddle-foot nervously at the worst possible moment. In such circumstances seconds were of vital importance, and as it was often said, there was no second-place winner awarded in a gunfight. Before he could regain full control of himself or his horse, he saw with a sickening sense of alarm, the carbine being lined with disconcerting—even frightening—steadiness toward him. However, when it went off, he might have counted himself fortunate. Showing its resentment, the animal tossed its head just as the weapon cracked for the second time. Struck there by the heavy-caliber bullet, it was killed instantly and crumpled down as if it had been suddenly boned to roll onto its side. After kicking spasmodically a couple of times, it went still.
Impelled by the speed of desperation, retaining his grasp on the rifle more by luck than deliberate intent despite the recoil kick, the hard case contrived to throw himself clear just in time to avoid having a leg trapped beneath the collapsing animal. Still being driven by a close-to-overwhelming fear of the consequences to move faster than would have been the case in less dangerous circumstances, he wriggled until he was able to crouch behind the carcass and began to recharge his weapon.
Also replenishing the chamber of his carbine, Silent surveyed the situation and decided he did not care for the way it had developed. Not only had he killed the horse without injuring its rider in any way, but the latter was now in a most adequate position to cope with any further measures Silent cared to take. In going down, by pure chance the animal had descended into a shallow coulee, an additional shelter to that provided by the horse’s body. All of which meant, the stocky cowhand conjectured with some bitterness, that the man was in a position from which he could shoot without needing to show much of his body. Furthermore, as Silent had noticed with annoyance, he still held his rifle, which had the advantage in range over the shorter and more compact carbine.
As if reading Silent’s thoughts, McBride began to raise himself cautiously into the lowest possible position from which he could take aim and limit the target he was presenting. Seeing this, never being so foolhardy as to expose himself to the weapon of a desperate man—especially one he suspected hated him—when it possessed a potential greater than his own, the stocky cowhand decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Releasing the carbine with his left hand, he made a derisive gesture and swung the Appaloosa to send it loping off in the direction from which he had come. He never discovered that he had a piece of luck.
Snarling profanities as he watched his intended victim turn and ride away, McBride aligned the rifle with all the skill he could muster.
When satisfied that its sights were aimed at the Texan’s back where it would deliver a fatal wound rather than kill instantaneously, the hard case squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened!
In his eagerness to take revenge upon the Texan who had added injury to insult by killing his horse, McBride had forgotten that the rifle had been fired before he went down and had failed to reload it.
By the time the hard case had corrected the mistake, the other man would be beyond any range at which he might hope to make a hit.
There was something even more alarming for McBride to consider. Even as he was about to lower himself to complete shelter behind the horse, he saw a younger Texan riding over the rim ahead of the first. With a sickening sensation in his stomach, he realized that his erstwhile secure position had suddenly become exactly the opposite. Until the newcomer appeared, he had comforted himself with the thought that the worst the stocky cowhand could do was ride around in an attempt to take him from a position where he would not be hidden by the dead horse. Before this could be accomplished, he would have been able to slip across the carcass and adopt a similar position of safety on the other side. But keeping at a distance beyond the range of his rifle, the pair of them could time their tactics in such a way that one could move in close enough for his shorter-range weapon to make a hit upon him while the other held his attention in another direction.
“What’s doing, Silent?” Thorny Bush demanded, reining his latest paint to a halt. “Why all the shooting?”
“It’s one of Korbin’s bunch,” the stocky Texan replied. “I had some fuss with him while the trail count was going on, but it didn’t come to nothing more’n him spitting out words to see if he could make ’em splutter.”
“So he’s come looking for evens?” the youngster suggested.
“Could be,” Silent admitted. “But he allowed he figured I was out looking to wide-loop some of the AW’s cattle.”
“Are any of his bunkies ’round?” Bush asked, bristling with belligerence.
“Wouldn’t say so, what I’ve seen of him. He’d never have made his play lonesome had there been more of ’em around.”
“What say we start figuring some way to hand him his needings?”
“Nope.”
“NOPE?” the youngster almost howled.
“Nope!” Silent confirmed emphatically. “There’s no harm done to me and it’s gone as far as it can without killing, and the boss don’t want none of that.”
“Have it your way,” Bush said with a sigh. “You most times do.”
“My way’s allus the best,” the stocky cowhand claimed with what sounded almost like modesty. “If there’s more of ’em around, they ain’t real close or Kiowa’d’ve found ’em afore now. Which being that skinny son of a bitch has got him a fair way ahead of him to join ’em, and he’ll have to do it afoot.”
“There’s that,” Bush conceded. “Only, I hadn’t aimed to mention it, but I don’t reckon there was more’n a round dozen grizzly b’ars and wasn’t no jaguar to hand when that li’l ole calf rescued you. Come on, let’s get back to that gather I’ve made afore they scatter all over the range again.”