When told of Heenan’s attempt at stampeding the herd and death, Goodnight agreed with Dusty’s views about the former. However, the urgent nature of the drive’s next phase soon pushed all thoughts of the incident from his and Dusty’s heads. To avoid complications, they passed the word that Heenan had deserted during the night. Filled with the knowledge of what lay ahead, the trail hands accepted the excuse and were not greatly interested in why the hardcase had gone.
When the cattle started moving that morning, there began an epic journey in the history of the West. For years to come, the first crossing of the Staked Plains by a trail herd would be spoken of in awe. Certainly the people involved would never forget it. Just as Goodnight had warned, they kept going without a pause by day or night.
At the point, Boiler Benson and Billy Jack took over the usual leaders. The giant strength of Mark and Ahlen was of more use with the drag. There they and other men tailed up steers which had fallen or just lay down to quit, or pushed aside the stronger steers to ease the path for the weaker. Masked by bandanas to try to keep the churned-up dust from clogging their nostrils and mouths, the remainder of the crew found work in plenty. Heat-crazed steers fought among themselves or showed the savage aggression of stick-teased rattlesnakes. More than one of the trail hands owed his life to the speed and sure-footedness of his horse, when attacked by a raging longhorn. Snatching meals in the saddle, dismounting only when nature could no longer be resisted, they rode on and on, ever west.
Ranging far ahead of the others, dependent upon his Pehnane upbringing and the ability of his horses, the Kid sought out the deadly alkali or salt lakes. Once located, he checked on the wind’s direction and passed the word to Goodnight who changed the line of march to pass so that the smell of water was not carried to the cattle. In that way they avoided the greatest danger of all. Fights could be stopped, charges evaded, the weary kept moving or the ‘downers’ hauled up and made to walk. Let the thirsty cattle get but one sniff of the water and they would have pushed to it with a force that neither man nor horse could hope to halt.
Through the three days of the drive, Dawn took her share of the work, risks and hardships. In fact, the way she plunged herself into the thickest, hardest of the grueling toil, it seemed that she sought to fill both her own and her dead brother’s places. Not only did she work hard, but her presence acted as the spur Dusty had hoped it would. What cowhand would quit, no matter how tired or dispirited he might be, when he saw the girl carrying on? At times Dawn being on hand prevented an exhausted cowboy from just giving up. Although every muscle, fiber and bone ached with weariness, the girl continued to ride the herd.
On the morning of the fourth—and they hoped last—day, Dusty sent Dawn back to see if the de Martins were all right. His main reason for the order was to take the girl from the dangers of the herd, if only for a short time. Reluctantly she agreed and rode away through the dust of the drag.
Even the girl did not realize just how tired she was. Once clear of the constant exertion and the ever-present need to remain alert, she found trouble in keeping her eyes open. In fact she actually went to sleep, only her years of riding training keeping her balanced in the saddle. The sound of a female voice raised in anger jolted Dawn awake. Staring ahead, she found that her bayo-tigre gelding was approaching her destination. The de Martins’ wagon stood with its team unhitched and flaps opened so that the approaching girl could see inside. Dressed in a robe, a disheveled Barbe faced de Martin furiously.
‘If this keeps up, I’ll go mad!’ the black-haired girl was screaming. ‘You said it would all be over before we had to—’
At that moment the photographer slapped his sister hard across the cheek. The force of the blow knocked her sprawling on to the unmade bed, sobbing in pain. Then he heard the sound of Dawn’s horse. Whirling around, he snatched a Remington Double Derringer from the top of a trunk to line it in the newcomer’s direction.
‘Oh it’s you, Dawn!’ de Martin greeted, lowering the little hide-out pistol.
‘Cap’n Dusty sent me back to see if everything’s all right,’ Dawn replied, wondering where a dude like the photographer had learned such fast, efficient gun-handling.
A muffled croak broke from the weeping Barbe, but de Martin went to her side and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘It is,’ he assured Dawn. ‘My sister was just a little hysterical and I had to quieten her, but we’re all right.’
‘Will she be all right?’
‘Yes. I can take care of her.’
‘Can I help you hitch up your team, or anything?’
‘No!’ de Martin stated emphatically. ‘You’ve probably got enough on your hands with the herd.’
‘That’s for sure,’ Dawn admitted. ‘Well, if there’s nothing I can do—’
‘Not a thing,’ de Martin insisted. ‘In fact, I can probably cope with Barbe better alone—’
‘Sure,’ Dawn said. ‘You’ll find the chuck wagon maybe a mile and a half along the trail. I’ll get back to the herd.’
With that, she rode in the direction of the herd. Curiosity made her turn in the saddle when about a hundred yards from the wagon. De Martin was bending over his sister talking in what Dawn felt to be an angry manner. Figuring it was none of her business, the girl continued to ride after the herd. Before she had reached the drag, something happened to make her put the de Martins out of her mind.
Up at the point, Billy Jack and Boiler Benson saw Buffalo start to sniff the air in a restless manner. At a signal from the old-timer, Goodnight and Dusty rode up. They too noticed the change in the lead steer’s behavior and turned worried faces to each other.
‘There’s a lake among the broken country ahead! ‘Dusty said worriedly. ‘If the wind’s changed—’
‘Yes!’ Goodnight answered and the one word was encyclopedic in its inference.
More of the leading steers raised their heads, joining Buffalo in excited bawling. The sounds rose to a crescendo as the leg-weary longhorns increased their pace. From a weary, dragging gait, they changed to a hesitant trot, then to a faster run. Soon the front section of the herd was racing forward with a dogged, blind determination that knew no stopping.
‘God damn all fool steers!’ Goodnight cursed impotently and profanely as the tired cowhands tried to halt the rush.
A mile fell behind, then two, with no sign of the cause for the steers’ behavior. At last Billy Jack saw the sun glinting on something ahead. For all his previous gloomy predictions, the cowhand felt a sickening sense of frustration and rage. After so long they were in danger of losing most of the herd. Unless—
‘It’s not a lake!’ Billy Jack screamed the words above the sounds of hooves, bellowing steers and shouting men. ‘By the Good Lord, it’s the Pecos!’
‘It’s the Pecos!’ Catching the words, another of the hands sent them ringing through the air. ‘It’s the lovely, son-of-a bitching Pecos!’
So it was. Instead of a lake with misery and death in every mouthful, the water ahead was the Pecos River. Scented almost three miles back by the steers, it had drawn them on and given the inducement they needed to reach it.
By that time the herd had spread itself into a long, segmented line as the fitter steers drew ahead. Even the drags had caught the fever of excitement and were pushing along at their best possible speed, although Mark and his eight-strong party still found the need to help the weakest.
Down to the river’s bank rushed the leading cattle. Buffalo and the first of the steers plunged in without hesitation, only to be pushed through by the crush from behind. Yet even that was not as dangerous as it might have been, for they went on, turning back and moving up or downstream until they found a place to enter and drink.
Among the cowhands accompanying the front of the herd, Dawn followed the cattle towards the Pecos. Knowing her strength limited her usefulness in the drag, she had pushed on along the line to help try to stop the rush. Keeping with the men, she rode into the river. Profane hilarity filled the air as rider after rider flung himself from his saddle to disappear beneath the surface. Coming up, gasping and spluttering, Dawn looked around her. While the Pecos River lacked the sparkling, crystal-clear quality of a snow-fed mountain brook, none of the crew thought the less of it. At that moment they would rather be drinking its water than the finest whiskey money could buy.
‘We’ve done it!’ Dawn screamed, throwing her arms around the nearest man and kissing his bristle-stubbled cheek. ‘We’ve done it!’
‘We for sure have!’ whooped the recipient, Billy Jack, then realized that such enthusiasm would ruin his image. ‘I’ll bet either them or us drown or get bogged in a quicksand, mind.’
‘Get ’em out of it and to work, Dustine!’ Goodnight ordered through his water-sodden whiskers, pounding his grinning nephew on the back. ‘The rest of the drive’re coming and’ll need handling.’
The Staked Plains had been crossed, the Pecos River lapped around their hips, but there was still work to do. Gathering the cowhands, including a bright-eyed, wildly happy Dawn, Dusty set half to control the arriving cattle, move those that had watered away from the river and hold them. The other half went back with him to meet the drag. It said much for the self-control of the riders in Mark’s party that they had stuck to their posts and continued with the grueling work of keeping the drag moving.
Not until noon did the last of the herd quench its thirst and cross the river. The chuck and bed-wagons had arrived and come to the western bank to join the cattle and remuda. Last on the scene were the de Martins, helped over in their wagon by laughing, delighted men. There had been losses during the final rush, but not heavy and still more than sufficient steers remained to fulfill the Army’s contract.
‘All right!’ Dusty told the assembled trail crew. ‘You’ve done real well and deserve a rest. So I’m giving you a holiday. Right through to tomorrow at sun-up.’
‘I dearly love a generous, kind-hearted boss,’ Red Blaze whooped. ‘Danged if I don’t celebrate by having me a bath.’
The idea caught on and a steady stream of cowhands left the camp carrying a change of clothing and, if they owned such refinements, towels. Going to the bed-wagon, Dawn climbed in. It had been cleared of bedrolls by men wanting clothing or the means to reload their soaked revolvers. So she opened up her war bag with the intention of following Red’s suggestion. First, however, she figured to let the men get through. Lying on her blankets, she drifted off to sleep.
Voices woke the girl and she stayed still for a moment until her sleep-dazed senses cleared. Looking out of the wagon, she concluded the time to be late afternoon. Then she rose, listening to what was being said.
‘Barbe has gone along the river to bathe, Jacko,’ came de Martin’s cultured tones. ‘Can you go and ask her to come back?’
‘Sure can,’ agreed the cowhand, sounding just a touch too eager. ‘Which way did she go?’
‘Upstream, among those bushes,’ de Martin explained. ‘I’d go myself, but I want to take some photographs.’
‘Shuckens, I don’t mind doing you ’n’ Miss Barbe a favour,’ Jacko protested.
‘I can just bet you don’t!’ Dawn thought as she waited silently. ‘Not when there’s maybe a chance of seeing her taking a bath.’
Before lying down to rest, the girl had removed her boots. She slipped on a pair of Indian moccasins, picked up the clothing set out earlier, draped her gunbelt across her right shoulder and left the wagon. Already de Martin was strolling towards the fire and Jacko was going at a fair speed in the direction of the bushes. Dawn darted after the cowhand and he turned as he heard her coming.
‘Hey, Jacko,’ Dawn greeted. ‘Say, Cap’n Dusty wants to see you.’
‘What for?’
‘I dunno. He said for me to tell you if I saw you.’
‘Reckon I’d best go and see what he wants,’ Jacko muttered in a disappointed voice. ‘If you see Miss Barbe, ask her to come back to help her brother take some pictures.’
‘I’ll do just that,’ Dawn promised.
Watching the cowhand stalk indignantly back to the camp, Dawn shook her head and let out a long breath. If her actions should be questioned later, she would claim that she had delivered the false message as part of a joke. One thing was certain to her way of thinking. For a smart big-city feller, de Martin sure showed a bad judgment of human nature in picking Jacko to fetch his sister. If Barbe was still either bathing or dressing, Dawn could not see the cowhand acting polite and warning the unsuspecting girl of his presence.
‘I’m damned if I know why I’m bothering,’ Dawn mused. ‘Only it don’t seem right for him to be watching her.’
Finding a path, Dawn followed it. She made no attempt to walk quietly, not wanting to startle the other girl by an unannounced appearance. Hearing a frightened feminine cry, she sprang between two bushes and skidded to a halt at the sight that confronted her.
Barbe stood on the other side of a sandy clearing, clad in a flimsy silk shift over the briefest, most daring underclothing Dawn had ever seen. Not that the shift offered anything but the scantiest concealment. Its hem had become spiked on the branches of a bush and was drawn high enough to expose her bare, very shapely legs to the tops of the thighs.
‘I—I’m caught. Can you help m—?’ Barbe began, making ineffectual attempts to free herself. Then she looked up at Dawn and puzzled annoyance creased her beautiful face. ‘It’s you!’
Maybe Dawn was a country-raised girl, with no more formal schooling than her mother had been able to supply, but she possessed her fair share of natural intelligence. Taking in the scene, she drew some rapid conclusions and did not care for them. Everything about Barbe’s attitude hinted that she had been expecting some other person to come on to the scene.
‘Just who the hell did you think it’d be?’ Dawn demanded, dropping her clean clothes and crossing the clearing to drape her gunbelt over the top of the bush which trapped the other girl. ‘Let me help you get loose.’
Gripping the hem of the shift, Dawn tugged it free from the bush and ripped the material. With an angry hiss, Barbe started to pull away from the other girl and added further damage to her garment. Staggering back a few paces, Barbe’s face twisted into an expression of rage which shocked Dawn.
‘You did this on purpose!’ Barbe spat out, moving forward and holding out the torn edge of the shift. ‘You cheap little—’
‘Don’t start mean-mouthing me, you man-chasing bitch!’ Dawn flared back. ‘Pulling a play like this, you could have—Hey though! How the hell did you know your brother wouldn’t be coming out to fetch you? That fancy skirt didn’t hang itself on the branch by accident.’
‘You mind your own business!’ Barbe yelled. ‘I’ve had enough of you, the whole stinking bunch of you!’
‘Which I can’t say I reckon a whole heap on you,’ Dawn replied and started to turn away. ‘Get dressed. None of the men’ll be coming.’
Barbe spat out something in a language which Dawn did not understand, but figured it to be anything except complimentary. Then the dark-haired girl caught the blonde by the arm and jerked her around. Up drove Barbe’s right knee, aimed at Dawn’s groin. Giving the angry oath had been a mistake on Barbe’s part. Always a tomboy and with experience gained in childhood scuffles, Dawn turned half-expecting such an attack. So she continued to swing her body and the knee struck her hip instead of its intended target. The force of its arrival sent the slim girl staggering away and with an effort she retained her balance.
‘All right!’ Dawn hissed. ‘If that’s how you want it—’
Clearly that was just how Barbe wanted it. Letting out another string of what Dawn assumed to be French profanity, the dark-haired girl flung herself forward. Caught by a stinging slap across the face, Dawn cut loose with both hands to retaliate in kind. Then their fingers sank into hair, tugging and jerking while their feet or knees flailed at the other girl’s legs and body.
For a few seconds the girls staggered backwards and forwards clinging to hair. Gasps, squeals and curses broke from them as each tried to throw the other to the ground but retain her own footing. In the matter of hair-pulling Dawn had the advantage. Her short-cropped locks offered a less secure gripping area than the long black tresses of her rival.
Feeling her fingers slipping from Dawn’s hair, Barbe raked her nails down the other’s cheeks and closed her hands on the other’s throat. Pure instinct made Dawn release her hold and transfer her fingers to Barbe’s neck. Reddish blotches formed where their fingers gouged into flesh, yet neither showed signs of releasing her hold. Guttural, croaking sounds broke from their mouths as the choking grips grew tighter.
Dawn had been surprised at Barbe’s unexpected strength, but was still the stronger of the two. Slowly she forced Barbe back, digging her thumbs into the other’s throat and bending her rearwards. Desperately Barbe released Dawn’s neck and clawed wildly at Dawn’s wrists. Pain brought a screech from Dawn’s lips and she hurled the other girl from her.
For a moment Dawn thought Barbe had had enough. Then the beautiful-faced girl attacked again. Launching themselves at each other, they collided with a sickening force. Without any form of planned attack, they grappled wildly for a grip to bring the other girl down. Locking her wiry arms around Barbe’s waist, Dawn tried to crush her. Struggling wildly, the black-haired girl encircled the blonde’s neck with her right arm and twisted until she held Dawn in a headlock. With her own arms around Barbe’s middle, Dawn could do nothing to prevent herself being trapped. Once again Dawn found herself being choked, but with less chance of reprisal. Nor could she use Barbe’s method of effecting an escape. Riding with the trail herd did not allow her to grow long fingernails.
Croaking and gasping, Dawn broke off her bear hug. Her hands roved wildly in an attempt to break the hold. Reaching Barbe’s head, Dawn’s left hand buried into the hair. Taking a firm hold, she jerked Barbe’s head backwards and at the same moment kicked the other hard behind her right knee. Braced on stiff legs, Barbe was thrown off balance when her leg suddenly bent forward. Before she could recover, Dawn had jerked free and they both sprawled in a heap on the sand.
With barely a pause the girls began to roll over and over. It was a wild, mindless tangle in which fists, flat palms, knees, feet, heads and teeth were used indiscriminately. Dawn’s shirt ripped down the back and flapped free of her levis, while Barbe’s scanty clothing—even less suitable for such treatment —suffered even greater damage. The shift hung in tatters, while the bodice of her underclothes had ripped to bare her torso.
Exhaustion rather than modesty or shame at her behavior made Barbe try to end the fight. How it happened was impossible to decide, but in some way they had each obtained a head scissors on the other. With legs locked about the other’s head, they rolled four times and then came apart. Sobbing for breath, Barbe tried to crawl away. Dawn lurched to her feet and flung herself forward. Taking a double handful of the black hair, she dragged Barbe upright. Then she released the girl and swung a punch. Hard knuckles crashed into Barbe’s nose and she stumbled backwards with hands going to the source of the pain.
‘My face!’ Barbe screamed, going to her knees. Through the tears of pain which misted her vision, she saw Dawn approaching. ‘No! No! Don’t hit me again!’
Slowly a feeling of revulsion filled the blonde, bringing her to a halt. Yet she wanted to give Barbe a warning to prevent a further recurrence of the flirting which had caused Vern and Willock’s deaths.
‘All right!’ Dawn said, breathing hard and standing over the crouching girl. ‘What the hell kind of game are you playing at?’
‘Do-don’t hit me again!’ Barbe whined. ‘Don’t hit me and I’ll tell you everyth—’
The flat crack of a light-caliber revolver chopped off her words. Struck in the head by a bullet, Barbe pitched sideways. Exhausted by the fight, Dawn reacted sluggishly. For a moment she stood and stared with unbelieving eyes at the other girl’s spasmodically jerking body. A soft thud nearby brought Dawn’s head around and she saw her Cooper revolver lying on the sand, smoke curling from its muzzle. Faintly she heard shouts and the sound of running feet coming her way. Without thinking, she bent over and picked up the revolver.
Still too dazed to realize fully what she was doing, Dawn turned with the smoking Cooper in her hand. She stood holding the gun, looking in exhausted incomprehension at Barbe’s body when the first of the men from the camp burst into the clearing. Everything seemed to be whirling around before Dawn’s eyes. Then as her legs buckled under her, she heard a voice from what seemed a long way off.
‘My God! She’s murdered my sister!’