With only the barest touch of dawn’s light showing, Rowdy Lincoln and his louse set to work rousing the trail hands. Already the coffeepots were steaming on the fire and the aroma of breakfast wafted to the groaning, cursing men the cook’s racket tore from the arms of sleep.
Laying in his blankets, Vern listened to the comments hurled at Rowdy’s head and began to see more than ever the point Dusty had made to him the previous night. So the youngster decided that he would avoid being touchy or easily riled in the future. If a mere cook could take joshing of a rough kind, a cowboy who was also a trail drive hand should be able to do just as well.
‘Come on!’ Dusty shouted, striding towards the bed-wagon and banging his fist against the side. ‘It’s near on noon and the crew’re dying of sun-stroke waiting to put their gear away.’
‘Looking for somebody?’ Dawn inquired, walking from the far side of the wagon. ‘Us womenfolk’re used to getting up early.’
Collecting their food and coffee, the trail hands stood or squatted around the fire and began to eat. They ate without the formality of washing or shaving, stowing away the hot refreshments in the knowledge that they would receive no more until the herd had been bedded down that evening.
Having eaten, the hands dumped their plates and cups into the tub of hot water placed for that purpose. Then they rolled their blankets, secured the bundles holding their individual belongings and headed for the bed-wagon. Each hand was responsible for seeing his, or her, bedroll went into the wagon. On the first failure to do so, the cook would attend to the matter and give the owner a tongue-lashing on their next meeting for his idleness. If the offender continued to leave his bedding unrolled, the cook was within his rights to drive off and leave it.
Already fed, the two day wranglers had collected the ‘cable’ from the bed-wagon. Taking the long, stout rope to where the nighthawk held the remuda, the two men set up a temporary corral. Supporting the cable on forked sticks spiked into the ground, they formed it into an open U shape. Into that flimsy enclosure, the nighthawk guided the horses.
Having been taught early the futility of fighting against a rope, the horses made no attempt to break through the slender barrier. So they milled around but remained inside the U while their users came to make the first selection of the day. With the trail hands, less the four on night guard, mounted and gone, the wranglers let the night-horses join their companions. They did not start the remuda moving straight away, but waited for the night herders to return and change mounts.
Having relieved the night watch, the fourteen remaining trail hands took up their positions and watched for Goodnight’s signal to start moving. Removing his hat, Goodnight swung it once counter-clockwise over his head, then pointed it forward above the ears of his horse. Instantly Mark and Ahlen cut loose with a deep-throated, singsong chant which, they hoped, would eventually come to be regarded as marching orders by the steers.
‘Ho, cattle!’ boomed the two men. ‘Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!’
Closing in, the trail hands began the business of getting the herd on the move. There was much the same kind of confusion as on the previous day, with an additional source of concern for the crew.
Even among the de-prided and impotent steers there was an inborn desire to lead. So, up towards the point, the largest or more aggressive of them started jockeying for position. It was a time of danger, calling for constant supervision by the swing and point riders, with powerfully muscled bodies thrusting and shoving in contests of domination.
Led by Dusty, Billy Jack, Red, Dawn and two more hands worked their horses in among the cattle ready to halt any serious conflicts. While most of the disputes, due to the press of advancing animals from behind, ended quickly, the work was not without risks. Separating two steers about to meet head-on, Dawn had her leg pinned between the saddle and the flank of a third longhorn. Saying a few things a well-bred young lady did not usually utter, the girl slashed at the steer with her rope and it drew away. Then she turned aside the rivals by the same means. Narrowly avoiding the stab of an angry steer’s horns, Billy Jack’s horse was butted by a muley and let fly with both hooves against the offender’s jaw hard enough to make it allergic to butting for some time to come. In doing so, the horse nearly threw its rider. Recovering his balance with masterly skill, Billy Jack found fresh trouble. In passing, the steer stuck its horn up the left leg of his pants. The material tore before worse damage was done and the doleful cowhand spent the rest of the day moaning about his misfortune in having a new—well, not more than six months old—pair of levis torn to doll-rags.
Finally one steer, a ten-year-old heavyweight with a dark brown body and head and shoulders of black seemed to be asserting its dominance over all the others. Twirling like a flash, it met the challenges of potential rivals with such force and determination that all were scared off without fighting. At last it stalked off ahead of the rest and none questioned its right to do so. Falling in on either side of the self-appointed leader, Mark and Ahlen guided it in the required direction.
With the leadership determined, the cattle continued to move with increased ease and Dusty’s party withdrew to the sides of the lines. Riding ahead, Dusty joined his uncle as Goodnight sat on a small rise to one side of the route.
‘What do you reckon, Uncle Charlie?’ Dusty inquired, nodding towards the point of the herd.
‘I’ve seen that big cuss around. He always lived close to the house, so he’s used to folk being around him. He’s not mean, or snaky. Happen he can hold on to the lead, we’ll be all right.’
Like all herd-dwelling animals, the longhorns tended to follow the dominant male’s directions. So a steady, well-behaved, sensible lead steer was invaluable on the trail drive. It would set the most suitable pace, obey the point riders’ instructions without fuss and hold the rest of the cattle together by the strength of its presence.
Another day’s hard pushing saw the trail herd thirty miles from the holding ground on the Swinging G. There was some horseplay around the campfire that night, but of a harmless nature. Dusty watched Willock to see how the cowhand was accepting the bawling out. From all appearances, Willock had decided to forget it, for he made no trouble and acted pleasantly enough in Dusty’s presence. Yet he displayed a veiled hostility towards the entire D4S contingent, ignoring them completely. Nobody else seemed affected by Willock’s attitude, so Dusty said nothing.
The events of the morning had prevented Dusty from suggesting to Goodnight that they should tell Ahlen of the change in their route. At nightfall, Dusty had put the matter from his mind and it was not raised.
The start of the third day’s drive went off somewhat more smoothly and ended with the big brown and black steer even more firmly established as the leader. Due to its colour, the trail crew started to call it ‘Buffalo’ and it rapidly justified Goodnight’s faith in it. It had all the qualities needed to lead the herd, being of a tractable nature where human beings were concerned and having the size, speed and bulk to handle dissidents or challengers, without being aggressive or bullying.
On the fourth day Goodnight allowed the pace to slacken. They were now well beyond the steers’ regular stamping grounds, which caused a sharp reduction in the desire to return. Even the ladinos began to lose their eagerness to bolt, faced with unfamiliar surroundings, and took comfort from the companionship of the mass around them. While there was still the occasional attempt to break away, they grew infrequent and were easier to deal with. ‘Lone wolves’ still prowled and circled the flanks of the herd, but the rest of the steers were gradually becoming accustomed to the trail.
By the end of the first week, the three thousand four hundred steers left—the early stages of a drive, with an inexperienced crew, always saw losses by desertion or from other causes—had settled into as near perfect a travelling unit as any trail boss could desire. Retaining its position as lead steer, Buffalo strode at the head of a long, multi-hued line of walking beef which stretched snake-like across the range. Following Buffalo came the chief contenders for his post of honor, the biggest, strongest, most energetic of the steers.
With each passing day, the order of seniority among the steers became more firmly established. Once on the move, they ambled along in the most convenient manner to their needs. Unless bunched together for some reason by the cowhands, they picked their own line of march as long as it was in the required direction and grazed as they walked. However, while a steer could drop back then revert to its original position, any attempt to advance beyond its station was resented and discouraged by the beasts ahead. So at any given time of the day a steer could generally be found in the same position relative to its companions. Even when thrown off the trail, stopped to allow more extensive feeding than possible on the march, or after being bedded down for the night, they would resume their positions on the drive’s continuing.
The muleys soon formed themselves into a group for mutual protection, bedding down clear of their horned kin, and foraged separately. Bringing up the rear, the weak, foot-sore or plain lazy animals formed a lachrymose bunch which needed to be constantly urged on by the drag riders.
Everybody on the drive worked hard from sun-up until late in the afternoon. Even after that most of the hands faced a spell of riding the night herd. The cook and his louse might have things easy during most of the day, but made up for it by being the first of the crew awake every morning. Good at their work, they saw to it that the others were well-fed and kept the coffee on the boil all night for the benefit of the riders coming to or from the herd.
Not only the steers improved with the travelling. All the trail hands gained confidence and experience as the days went by. Dusty watched them all and drew his conclusions from what he saw. Although there was, naturally, some inter-ranch rivalry, it stayed on a friendly basis.
Despite his start, Willock proved to be a good man at his work. He did tend to show off a mite and try to impress the others with his skill, but avoided incidents of the kind which had almost brought him into conflict with Dusty. Only once did his path close with Vern’s; even then only slightly.
Apparently Vern had taken Dusty’s comments of the first night to heart. He still reacted eagerly and showed boyish enthusiasm for his work, but not so much as on the first day of the drive. It seemed that Dawn too had profited from advice, for she might glance in annoyance when Vern acted in what she regarded as an unbecoming manner but never condemned him publicly. Left to himself, the youngster matured fast. He took part in the horseplay around the camp, giving as good as he got. When joshed about his youth, he no longer grew angry and commented instead on the age or senility of his tormentor. Only once did he almost fall from grace.
On the tenth day Goodnight allowed the herd to rest and graze. With Dusty’s permission, Vern left camp on a hunting expedition in the hope of varying their diet. Shortly after noon he returned at a gallop on a lathered horse.
‘I saw some dust shifting down that way, Cap’n,’ the youngster breathlessly announced, pointing along their back trail. ‘And there was something flashing in it.’
‘Best go take a look,’ Dusty decided and ordered some of the men to saddle up fast.
‘Reckon it’s that Hayden feller?’ Vern asked excitedly, having been included in the party.
‘I hope it’s not,’ Dusty replied. ‘Let’s ride.’
Guided by Vern, the party rode east. On their way, they met the Ysabel Kid returning from a circle around the area. The Kid confirmed about the dust and explained the ‘metallic’ flashes seen by Vern. About three miles away a large band of pronghorn antelope were grazing. What Vern had taken for the flickering of the sun on weapons was the flashing of the animal’s white rumps as they signaled to each other in the manner of their kind.
Going back to the camp, the men told what had happened. Willock sneered about the mistake, but had sense enough to keep his comments to himself. All the older hands agreed that the youngster had done the right thing by returning. So their comments about his behavior held no sting. He redeemed himself by resuming his hunting in the late afternoon and returning with a bull elk, the meat of which made a welcome change from longhorn beef.
Having what appeared to be the easiest job on the drive, the Ysabel Kid came in for his fair share of ribbing whenever he appeared at the campfire. Ranging far ahead, or circling the herd at a distance, it was his duty to locate natural hazards, human enemies or any other kind of danger. He also had to report to the trail boss on the condition of the land ahead, so that the route offering the best, easiest travel could be selected.
With the possibility of further trouble from Hayden, the Kid kept an extra careful watch on the rear. Nor did Vern’s abortive alarm cause the dark youngster to relax. However, day after day rolled by with no sign of their enemies. The weather stayed fine and the whole crew was in good spirits.
For all that he covered more miles than any of his companions in a given day, a convention had grown up in the camp to accuse the Kid of spending his time asleep in the shade of a bush and only catching up when sure all the work had been done. When the Kid tried to produce his leg-weary horses as vindication of his true hard-working qualities, Billy Jack countered by fabricating a story about a pretty girl the dark youngster visited each day.
Usually the Kid did not return until well after dark. So Dusty and Goodnight, out ahead of the herd, regarded his appearance with apprehension when he came towards them in the late afternoon of the fourteenth day. Nothing showed on the Indian-dark young face and its owner might have been no more than returning in the normal course of events. Yet Dusty and the rancher guessed that the Kid bore grave and disturbing news.
‘All right,’ Dusty said resignedly as his amigo halted the leggy bayo-lobo xv horse he was using that day. ‘What’s up ahead.’
‘Plenty of good grass, a stream of clear water and a mighty pretty place to bed down just by it.’
‘Now the bad news,’ Goodnight ordered.
‘Saw some smoke ahead a ways,’ the Kid complied.
‘Indians making it?’
‘Could be, Colonel. It was a fair ways off and I didn’t take time to go closer. Figured you’d want to know.’
‘You figured right. What do you reckon?’
‘There wasn’t enough smoke for white folks to be making it. Or for a whole village. I’d say it’s a small bunch. Out raiding seeing’s how they’re down this ways.’
Which meant, as Dusty and Goodnight knew, the braves were on a horse-stealing mission. Not a comforting thought when the herd had along almost seventy good horses in its remuda. During his time with Cureton, Goodnight had gained a considerable knowledge of the Comanche as enemies. However, he was willing to yield to the Kid’s superior wisdom.
‘What’re our chances, Lon?’
‘I dunno,’ the Kid answered frankly. ‘Down here’s the borders of the Kweharehnuh and Yamparikuh stamping grounds. Could be a bunch from either. I’d bet my money on it being Yap-Eaters, not Antelopes, at this time of the year.’
‘The Yap-Eaters’re tough hombres’ Goodnight pointed out.
‘Sure, but us Pehnane were allus closer to ’em than to the Antelopes. Happen it’s either band and not just a bunch of tuivitsi on their lonesome, I might be able to get us by them. It’ll likely cost us some cattle, and maybe a few of them extra hosses I asked you to fetch along.’
‘It’ll be worth them to get by without fuss,’ Goodnight stated. ‘Only a bunch of hot-headed young bucks aren’t likely to listen to reason.’
‘Nope,’ agreed the Kid. ‘But, happen them tuivitsi’we got a tehnap along, he might be.’
‘Can you get up close enough to talk, even if there is one along?’ Goodnight asked, knowing that even tehnap, experienced warriors, were inclined to shoot first and ask questions a long ways second when dealing with white men.
‘I’ve got my medicine boot along,’ the Kid answered. ‘When they see that, they’ll sit back and listen.’
‘You want to handle it alone?’ asked Dusty.
‘Nope. I’d like to have you along to talk for Colonel Charlie. There’s another thing, you mind how them renegade Tejases took on when they saw what our new Henrys could do?’
‘I sure do,’ Dusty grinned, recalling how the repeated fire from their Winchesters had scared off a band of Indians while on a mustang-catching trip. xvi ‘It’s likely those Yap-Eaters won’t have seen rifles like them yet either.’
‘Go with him, Dustine,’ Goodnight said, even though he might be sending his favorite nephew to an unpleasant death. ‘Make any kind of deal you have to and I’ll back you on it.’
‘Yo! When do you want to start, Lon?’
‘As soon as we’ve fed, I’d say. Further we are from the herd when we meet ’em, the easier we can dicker.’
Accompanied by Dusty and the Kid, Rowdy speeded up his team and made for the site selected as their night’s campground. There he and his louse broke all records in producing a meal. So well did they work that Dusty and the Kid rode out of camp just as the first of the night watch came from the herd.
‘Back to four of us on night herd,’ Willock muttered sullenly, watching the Kid and Dusty pass by. ‘There’s something in the air!’
‘What’s up, Rowdy?’ inquired Raymar of the Flying H, having seen the decorative buckskin case across the Kid’s bent left arm. ‘What’s Lon got that medicine boot on his rifle for?’
‘Had he?’ countered the cook and raised his eyes piously to the sky. ‘So help me, I never noticed.’
‘There’s something bad wrong!’ Willock insisted.
‘That stew don’t smell no worse’n any other night,’ Spat Bodley objected. ‘And if it’s anything else, we’ll likely get told soon enough.’
However the four men had to return to their duties with curiosity unsatisfied. Goodnight gave them no more than the usual orders before following the rest of the crew to the camp. There he addressed the party at the fire and warned them what the Kid suspected.
‘Comanches!’ Dawn breathed.
‘Shucks, they don’t fight at night, sis,’ Vern protested. ‘Everybody knows that.’
‘They may not fight, but they move and raid in it,’ Goodnight warned him. ‘Only, afore you start looking for war-whoops behind every rock, I don’t reckon they’re close enough to make fuss for us tonight. Sure, I know I doubled the guard. I’d sooner have you all out riding the night herd and see nothing than get two men jumped and the cattle scattered.’
‘Uncle Charlie’s got a real kind heart,’ Red whispered to Dawn. ‘You’ve just to look real hard to find it. Most of my uncles’re like that.’
Despite his comment, Red fully agreed with Goodnight’s precautions. So did the rest of the listeners. Throwing a glare at his nephew, the keen-eared rancher continued with his orders in case of an attack.
‘What repeating rifles have we along?’ Goodnight asked, wanting to make sure he knew the correct figure. ‘All my boys’re carrying Spencers, down to Rowdy and Turkey—’
‘Up to Rowdy ’n’ Turkey,’ corrected the cook, a privileged member of rangeland society. ‘That’s the right way to say it.’
‘I’ve a new Henry,’ Mark announced.
‘Pappy let me bring along our Henry,’ Vern went on, not without a touch of pride. ‘But Dawn’s only got her old scattergun.’
‘It’s a right handy tool though,’ Dawn continued tolerantly.
Altogether the party could muster twelve repeating rifles and carbines, the rest of the crew being armed with muzzle-loaders, single-shot breech-loaders or just their hand-guns. Quickly Goodnight arranged the positions of the trail crew so that the repeaters would be evenly shared between the swing, flank and drag. Should the Indians come looking for trouble, the flank and swing riders on each side were to join their respective point man at the head of the herd. The drag hands and wranglers had orders to gather at the wagons. That way there would be controlled groups of defenders delivering volley firing instead of scattered individuals shooting.
‘Hey, Colonel Charlie!’ Rowdy Lincoln suddenly hissed. ‘There’s somebody moving out there to the east.’