‘That’s one right forceful and determined gal, I told you, Dusty,’ Mark Counter declared admiringly, nodding to where Dawn Sutherland was carrying her low-horned, double-cinched saddle towards the Swinging G corral.
‘She sure is,’ grinned Dusty Fog, also turning his eyes in the direction of the girl.
Tall, slender, but blossoming into full womanhood, Dawn Sutherland wore a man’s tartan shirt and levis pants, the turned-up cuffs of which hung outside her high-heeled riding boots in the approved cowhand fashion. On her blonde hair, cut boyishly short before her return from Mineral Wells, a white Confederate Army campaign hat’s brim threw a shadow over her tanned, pretty face. About her middle was a military gunbelt with a Cooper Navy revolver in its open-topped holster. Dusty had cause to know that the gun was no mere decoration. If her free-striding walk and the way she carried the heavy saddle, with a forty-foot hard-plaited Manila rope coiled at its horn and a twin-barreled ten-gauge shotgun in the boot, was anything to go on, she was a healthy, fit and strong young woman.
‘If you think that blow-up with Colonel Charlie just now was something to watch, you ought to have seen the one with her pappy when she told him she was coming,’ Mark chuckled. ‘I thought that li’l gal was fixing to whup us all, tooth ’n’ claw, to get her way. She’ll make a hand, Dusty.’
‘How about the rest of them?’ Dusty inquired, indicating a group of ten assorted, but fairly representative cowhands hovering in the background.
‘They handled the herd from Mineral Wells easy enough,’ Mark answered. ‘Which, afore you tell me, I know it’s nothing to what’s ahead. Swede Ahlen there,’ he nodded to a big, powerfully built blond man, ‘he’s the Double 2’s segundo. Hultze and the other ranchers figured they should have one foreman along. Swede’s not pushy and’s willing to take orders as long as he figures the man giving ’em’s giving the right ones.’
‘Do the rest of them listen to him?’
‘Most do. Bench P, Lazy F and Double 2 are all pards, but the Flying H and D4S get along all right with them. Young Vern Sutherland’s a mite wild, but he’ll likely grow out of it when she stops being his big sister. That flashy-dressed, good-looking cuss’s Burle Willock from the Double 2. He’s a good hand. They all are but he knows it.’
‘I’ll mind it,’ Dusty promised.
Faced with the post of segundo, second in command to Goodnight, on the trail drive, Dusty did not regard Mark’s comments as snooping or a breach of confidence. With seven ranches involved, even though four of them had sent only two men each, he would have to stay constantly alert against inter-spread rivalry. One of the cowhand’s prime virtues, which Dusty greatly admired, was his loyalty to the brand for which he rode. Yet he must persuade the trail crew to put aside thoughts of their respective outfits and weld them into a smoothly functioning working team as quickly as possible. Only by doing so could they hope to complete the six hundred mile journey to Fort Sumner.
So every detail Dusty could learn about the men and their relationship to each other would be of the greatest help in keeping the peace and achieving unity.
Sure the drive to Fort Sumner had been completed before, but never with such a large herd or small crew. On his previous drives, Goodnight had used at least twenty trail hands to handle a thousand to fifteen hundred head. Experience had led him to believe the number was grossly excessive. Penny-pinching did not account for the view. So many men tended to get in each other’s way and caused confusion in an emergency. With that in mind, Goodnight planned to deliver three thousand five hundred head with a crew of only eighteen trail hands, his segundo, cook, cook’s louse and three horse wranglers. If his gamble paid off, a herd and crew of the same general size could complete the longer journey to Kansas with a sufficient margin of profit to make the attempt worthwhile.
Much depended on Dusty as segundo for the drive’s success. Never a man to flinch from responsibility, he meant to do everything in his power to see his uncle’s scheme put through.
If Dusty and Mark studied and discussed the Mineral Wells cowhands in a surreptitious manner, the return scrutiny was much more frank and open. In fact, Dusty could guess at the thoughts uppermost in the newcomers’ minds. How did one reconcile the Dusty Fog of legends with the actual man. Such a reputation should go with a giant figure, capable of physically dominating any company and of commanding appearance.
Dusty Fog stood five foot six in his high-heeled boots. While his clothes had cost good money and were those of a top hand, he contrived to give them the appearance of somebody’s cast-offs. A new black Stetson, low of crown and wide brimmed in the Texas fashion, rode on his dusty blond head. His face was handsome, if not exceptionally so. If one chose to look closer, the cool gray eyes and strength of his features told the tale of the real man within. Around his waist was a finely-built gunbelt with a silver Confederate States Army buckle. Its carefully designed cross-draw holsters supported two bone-handled 1860 Army Colts. Efficient outfit though it might be, the gunbelt did nothing to lessen the small Texan’s insignificant appearance—in times of peace.
If Dusty Fog failed to look the part, Mark Counter might have posed for a painting of the popular conception of a hero. Six foot three in height, his golden blond, curly hair and almost classically handsome features topped a truly splendid physical development. A great spread of shoulders tapered down to a slender waist and long, powerfully muscled legs. Decorated with a silver concha-studded band, his costly white Stetson hinted at his affluence. Around his throat was knotted a tight-rolled green silk bandana. His broadcloth shirt—its sleeves hinting at the enormous biceps under them—and levis pants had obviously been tailored to his fit, while his boots were the best money could buy. Like Dusty, he wore a gunbelt made by a master craftsman and supporting matched ivory-handled Army Colts of Best Citizens Finish in the contoured holsters.
Over the years Dusty had grown used to the surprise people showed when meeting him for the first time. He reckoned he could win over the newly arrived cowhands and effectively deal with objections to one of his stature giving orders to larger, more imposing men.
There was, however, one disturbing element. It had been Dawn Sutherland who brought Goodnight the first warning of the stolen cattle and received an account of his dream to rebuild Texas’ war-shattered economy. The idea had been that she should return to her home near Mineral Wells and persuade the local ranchers to send men and cattle to accompany the Swinging G herd. However, Dawn planned to do more than act as messenger, then sit passively in a corner while the men-folk went off. Oldest child, she was aware of her responsibilities. A riding accident had lamed her father and he might never recover sufficiently to make extended journeys. Regarding her younger brother as a mere child—he lacked two years of her nineteen—she decided that it fell upon her to go on the drive and learn how to handle a trail herd. Despite arguments, pleadings by her mother, objections from her father and brother and warnings of the difficulties her presence might cause to the male trail hands, she had remained adamant. In the end, to Vern’s protests, her parents had given permission for Dawn to go. Nor had Goodnight been any more successful in dissuading her.
Dawn’s presence might raise problems. A good-looking girl could easily stir up the unruly, lusty younger element of the crew. However, from what he had seen, she knew how to take care of herself and steer clear of romantic troubles. It was still, however, something more added to Dusty’s burden at a time when he could have done with things taken off not added.
There had been only one incident of note on Mark’s visit to Mineral Wells. Two days before the return journey was begun, he and the Kid had recognized a man whom they had last seen as part of Chisum’s trail crew, with the stolen cattle. On learning that the man had been asking questions about their presence in town, they had discussed what should be done. Discarding his companion’s simple, if drastic, solution, Mark had decided on keeping the man under surveillance. So the Kid had followed him when he left town and did not return in time to assist on the short drive to Young County.
While Dusty approved of Mark’s decision, being interested to know if the death of Wednesbury had ended the threat to the drive, the Kid’s absence deprived them of his services as a scout. He would catch up to them on the trail, having collected a relay of horses from the D4S before setting out after the snooper, and, fortunately, the need for his presence would be less during the earlier days of the journey.
A stirring and change of the Mineral Wells men’s point of interest diverted Dusty from his thoughts. The cowhands were looking to where their trail boss had left the main house and stood on the edge of its porch with a sheaf of papers in his hand.
Charles Goodnight had the build of a Comanche warrior, middle-sized, stocky, powerfully framed but far from clumsy. Apart from his neatly trimmed beard, his face held some of that savage nation’s qualities in its keen, hard eyes and impassive strength. He dressed little differently from the cowhands, except that his vest was made from the rosette-spotted hide of a jaguar which had foolishly strayed north and tried to live off his cattle. Matched rosewood handled Army Colts rode in the holsters of his gunbelt and he knew how to use them.
‘The Kid’s not back yet?’ Goodnight inquired as his nephew and Mark walked across to join him.
‘No, sir,’ Dusty replied. ‘He’ll follow that feller and see who he meets if it can be done. Then he’ll come back and catch up with us on the trail.’
‘We shouldn’t need him for a week at least,’ the rancher said. ‘And I’m like you, I’d like to know if Wednesbury’s partner is still in the game. Get the hands to come here, Dustine.’
‘Yo!’ Dusty gave the old cavalry response to an order.
Sensing what was in the air, big Swede Ahlen led the other men up before Dusty had time to speak. Forming into a rough half circle before the porch, they waited eagerly to hear what Goodnight had to say.
‘I’d best make a few things clear to you,’ the rancher announced. ‘You’ve handled herds and know what it’s all about. Well, this drive’ll be much the same—except that it’s longer and with more cattle than you’ve ever tried. There’s only one way we’ll get through. By working together and obeying orders. I’ve made out these Articles of Agreement which I want you to read and sign. They’ll be binding from the moment you put on your signature until the drive’s over. Binding to you and just as completely to me.’
‘Would you read ’em out to us, Colonel Charlie?’ Ahlen requested, his voice as Texan as any of the cowhands’. ‘Some of us’re a mite shy on schooling.’
Nodding soberly, the rancher complied. Maybe Goodnight had never served in the Army, or risen to higher rank than sergeant with the Texas Rangers—his title being honorary, granted in respect for his courage, integrity and qualities of leadership v —but he had a strong sense of responsibility to the men he hired. On his previous drives, he had established a code of conduct for boss and crew, setting it down in writing that all might know exactly where they stood.
In a clear voice Goodnight began to read the various paragraphs of the Articles. First he stated, in plain terms all could follow, what he as trail boss undertook to do. Then he went on to stress the importance of instant obedience to the orders of himself or his aides, Dusty Fog as segundo, or Mark Counter in the small Texan’s absence. While reading the duties of the trail hands, Goodnight watched the Mineral Wells men. Nods of agreement with the various points came from the older, steadier listeners, showing that they at least accepted the Articles as satisfactory. All saw the need for the ruling that hard liquor would only be carried in the chuck wagon and used for medicinal purposes; a drunken cowhand being a danger to himself and menace to the safety of the whole drive.
At last Goodnight stopped reading. Yet something in his attitude warned the listeners that he was not finished. Whatever came next must be real important. So they waited in silence and he continued, but with a grimmer emphasis.
‘If any member of the crew kills another, he will be tried by his companions and, if found guilty of murder, hung on the spot—’
‘Hung!’ repeated Burle Willock, the word bursting out in a startled pop.
‘I’ve never shot a man on the trail,’ the rancher replied.
Being aware of the stresses and strains to which a trail crew found themselves subjected, Goodnight had found the last article a stout deterrent to trouble. The threat of hanging carried a grim finality that went far beyond that of being shot. Only criminals, murderers, horse or cow thieves and the like were hung. It was a death of disgrace. So the men would be inclined to think twice and decide wisely, Goodnight hoped, when they knew the fate awaiting them if they broke the article.
‘Any man who doesn’t agree with the articles needn’t sign them,’ Goodnight said after the rumble of comment at the last article had died away. ‘But if he doesn’t, he’ll not be coming on the drive.’
‘They’re fair enough for me, Colonel,’ Ahlen declared and walked forward.
‘By cracky, I’m on,’ announced Dawn’s tall, gangling, tow-headed younger brother crowding up on the big blond’s heels.
Man after man followed, each writing his signature or making his mark on the master copy and his own sheet of the Articles. Even Dawn signed, calmly ignoring the rancher’s cold-eyed disapproval and oblivious of his attempts to will her into a change of heart.
Helping his uncle take the signatures, Dusty became aware of a commotion at the bunkhouse. Shouts, curses, crashes and other sounds of a struggle preceded the appearance through the door of a fighting pair of cowhands. Locked together, they crashed to the ground and rolled over flailing punches at each other. Recognizing the men as Spat Bodley and Austin Hoffman, two of the Swinging G’s detachment on the drive, Dusty could guess at the cause of the trouble.
Before Dusty could make a move to intervene, while Mark raced towards the fighters, a peacemaker came on the scene. Long experience had taught Rowdy Lincoln how to deal with such disturbances. So the well-padded, big, jovial-faced cook emerged carrying a large bucket which he up-ended over the struggling pair. The arrival of the cold, dirty water shocked the breath from the cowhands and caused them to release their grasps as they knelt facing each other. Giving them no time to recover, Mark swooped down on them. Taking hold of each cowhand by the scruff of his neck, the blond giant hoisted them erect and hurled them apart.
‘Quit it!’ Mark growled, looming ominously between them.
Even a hot-head like young Austin Hoffman had sense enough to know when to surrender. Anybody who could pick up two grown men and toss them aside with such ease deserved to have his wishes respected. No less astute, Spat stood breathing heavily and glaring at his opponent.
Coming up on the run, Dusty went by the Mineral Wells men and halted at Mark’s side to ask, ‘What started it?’
‘Hell!’ Austin sniffed indignantly. ‘Spat there can’t take a joke.’
‘Some damned joke … ’ Spat growled. ‘And if you—’
‘Tell it, Rowdy!’ Dusty snapped, glaring the cowhand to silence.
‘Boys were talking about the drive, and Austin said something about how lucky they was to have Spat along, him being such a top hand at fetching help. That was when Spat jumped him.’
Annoyance bit at Dusty and he prepared to stamp out a potential cause of further trouble on the drive. Spat Bodley was an amiable man, most times, and a skilled trail hand. The comment which had goaded him to violence referred to his having twice been sent to collect help for companions in trouble. On the first occasion he had returned just too late to prevent Oliver Loving receiving a fatal wound. The second time, he had brought help just in time to save Dusty’s life.
Since Loving’s death, Spat had grown increasingly touchy about mentions of his part in the affair and reacted with growing hostility to talk of his fetching help. For the first time, his objections had reached the point of physical violence. Dusty wanted to avoid any repetition. There were not enough trained trail hands on the drive for him to leave either man behind; and that, while the easy way out, would not solve Spat’s problem. So Dusty thought fast and put his decision into words.
‘Go and clean out the barn, Spat!’
Normally such a menial task would have been performed by the horse-wranglers. Knowing why he had been given it, Spat went without another word. Dusty turned cold eyes to a slightly defiant Austin, but addressed his next words to the cook.
‘You were saying that new back-house hole wants to go down deeper, Rowdy?’
‘It could do with a couple of foot deeper, cap’n,’ Lincoln admitted.
‘Take Austin here and he’ll do it for you.’
Shock twisted at the cowhand’s face and he gasped, ‘Me! On the blister end of a shovel. I’ll be damned—’
‘I’m telling you to do it!’ Dusty cut in coldly. ‘It’s that, or go ask for your time.’
Knowing that Goodnight would support his nephew’s statement, Austin made a fast decision. Work was not easy to find in Texas, especially highly paid work like trail driving, and riding for the Swinging G carried a certain significance. It meant such a man was a cowhand of high quality. Folks would think twice before hiring a feller whom Colonel Goodnight had fired.
Nor did Austin discount Dusty’s own part in the matter. Unlike the Mineral Wells men, he had come to know the small Texan very well. Not only had Dusty demonstrated his strange, uncanny almost, bare hand fighting skill, but two days earlier had been captured by a pair of Wednesbury’s men and escaped. Even having his hands bound behind his back had not prevented Dusty from gaining his freedom, killing one of his captors and taking the second prisoner. So Austin figured that Dusty Fog did not need the backing of any man to enforce his intentions.
‘I hates digging,’ Austin said, trying to carry off the affair in a light manner. ‘But I hates work-hunting worse. Lead me to it, Rowdy, and watch me make like a gopher.’
‘Have you any work needs doing, Rowdy?’ Dusty asked before the cook left.
‘Just a few things to load on the bed-wagon is all, cap’n.’
‘Take three of these fellers to help you,’ Dusty ordered, indicating the onlookers. ‘Swede, have half of them that’s left to help the wranglers. Mark, take the rest to spell Uncle Charlie’s men on the herd until night-fall.’
‘Yo!’ answered Ahlen and Mark echoed the word, then they turned to give their orders. Mark included Dawn in his party, for she was to be classed as an ordinary hand and take her share of the work.
That evening the whole trail crew was gathered for supper when Austin came into the cook shack. No cowhand took kindly to digging and the youngster scowled unpleasantly around. Watching the expression on Austin’s face, Dusty prepared to ram home the point he wanted to make.
‘Do you know why I made you do it?’ Dusty asked, making sure his words carried to all the men.
‘For starting that fuss,’ Austin guessed.
‘That was only a li’l part of it. I figured you should learn how it feels to be made do something you hate doing. That’s what happened to Spat, with Oliver Loving and again with me. He didn’t leave either time because he was scared, but because he was ordered to do it. Spat hated like hell having to obey—and it was a damned sight harder thing to do than dig a backhouse hole. But he’s a good hand and he knows that orders have to be obeyed. So he did what he was told. And each time, he turned right round then came back after he’d done what he was sent to do.’
‘I never thought—’ Austin began.
‘You should try it some time,’ Dusty told him. ‘It’s easier on the hands than riding the blister end of a shovel. And the rest of you can get this. Spat’s full capable of standing up for hisself, but I don’t aim to have him doing it on this drive. The next man to mention it, even as a joke, I’ll fire and run off without pay; even if it happens while we’re driving through the gates of Fort Sumner.’
‘Reckon he’d be mean enough to try it, Boiler?’ Burle Willock asked the grizzled Swinging G cowhand seated at his side.
‘You’d best believe he’d do it,’ the old timer grunted and rose to walk away.
‘He talks big, don’t he, Jacko?’ Willock grinned to one of his cronies. ‘Only I noticed that he let Mark Counter stop that fight.’
‘Leave us not forget he’s Colonel Charlie’s nephew,’ Jacko Lefors warned.
‘Likely he’ll not let us forget that,’ Willock replied. ‘Thing being, how’ll he stack up on his own. Could be we’ll find out afore this here drive’s through, Jacko boy.’