The Floating Outfit 64, page 5
Chapter Five – Bushwhack Right, Mark!
UNAWARE OF THE problems besetting Calamity Jane and Dusty Fog in Child City—although, knowing her as he did, he would not have been over-surprised to find out how she had become embroiled in the fight—Mark Counter was taking advantage of the fact that everything was running smoothly at the first bunch ground he had selected. Remembering that Dusty Fog had treated him in the same fashion when they found themselves acting respectively as roundup captain and straw boss, as the second in command was known, he had decided to let his replacement in the latter capacity learn at first-hand what was entailed by the position in the work upon which they were engaged. xii Doing so would allow him to escape the multifarious duties that were going to be his lot for a short while by going out as if he were just one of the hands to help search for and gather cattle.
Because Mark’s own seventeen-hand bloodbay stallion was better suited to traveling long distances at a good speed than to working cattle, although he had used it for that purpose on occasion, he was using a bayos azafranados gelding selected from the Wedge’s remuda. Saffron-hued, between dun and sorrel, it was not quite as hefty as his private horse. However, since he was a light rider capable of taking less out of his mount than a lighter but less skilled person, it was up to carrying his weight, and that had been an important factor in his selection.
Regardless of where he was or what was going on around him, Mark tended to stand out in any company. On first seeing him, the beautiful and talented woman who became Dusty’s wife had said Mark looked like the Greek god Apollo with the physique of Hercules. His six-foot-three-inch frame was topped by golden-blond hair and a tanned, almost classically handsome face with intelligence in its strong lines. There was a great width to his shoulders. Below, his torso slimmed to a narrow waist before opening out to proportionately sized hips set on long and powerful legs clearly as well-muscled as the biceps that showed beneath the ample sleeves of his shirt. Large and clearly possessed of exceptional strength, he nevertheless gave the impression of being quick and agile. In fact, as had often been proved in the past, he could move with commendable rapidity when called for in any situation.
Although purely functional and evidently worn for the work he was doing, the blond giant’s attire looked in some respects like that of a dandy. There was a black leather band decorated by silver conchas on his white Texas-style J. B. Stetson hat. The rest of his attire had clearly been made to his measure; such an excellent fit could not have been achieved from the ready-to-wear shelves of a store, even one in a major city. Made by a master craftsman, his brown leather buscadero gunbelt carried two ivory-handled Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker revolvers in its contoured holsters. These, too, were by no means decorative. Despite their seven-and-a-half-inch barrels he had acquired a skill that was acknowledged as being second only to that of his small dusty-blond amigo, the Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog, in speed of withdrawal and shooting accuracy.
Unlike Dusty in Child City—or the Ysabel Kid at Prescott, for that matter—Mark had experienced only a few minor problems since circumstances had compelled him to take over as roundup captain and relinquish the less demanding duties of straw boss. These were still open-range days—with stock allowed to roam at will until needed—and the crew he had under his control had come from the four ranches that formed Spanish Grant County. The foremen of the two properties currently without owners had been instructed to participate by Counselor Edward Sutherland in his capacity as justice of the peace for the area. The ruling was based on the grounds that to do so would prove beneficial for whoever eventually owned the ranches and save them the expense of a similar gather of their own stock after taking over.
The crews of the spreads had always been on good terms—even Ed Leshin of the Vertical Triple E had been unaware of the machinations carried out by Eustace Edgar Eisteddfod with the intention of stirring up trouble between Stone Hart and Major Wilson Eardle—and the men assigned from each for the roundup were working together amicably. As was to be expected—honest cowhands being the kind of men they were—there was some rivalry between the members of the different outfits, but this was conducted on an amiable basis and was beneficial, since it ensured that everybody did his best for the honor of the brand he served. There had not been a single protest over the venting of the CM brand on the cattle that had belonged to Cornelius MacLaine, to be replaced by Stone Hart’s Wedge insignia. In fact, all the hands from the other ranches had volunteered to give assistance.
Dusty had been called to Child City to temporarily assume the duties of county sheriff, and this had necessitated a change in the management of the roundup. The blond giant was asked to take over the position vacated by Dusty, and so another second in command was needed. The selection of Jimmy Conlin, the foreman of Eardle’s AW, had been carried out through the drawing of straws in the presence of witnesses and was accepted as a satisfactory arrangement by all concerned. Mark had already acquired enough faith in Conlin’s ability to have had no qualms over leaving him in charge at the bunch ground while he himself sought a brief period of relaxation before tackling the multitude of details and problems that are faced by a trail boss.
Holding the well-trained gelding to a steady walk as he proceeded along the open bottom of a valley with a fair number of bushes and small trees on each of its gently rising slopes, Mark was having no difficulty hazing along the small bunch of cattle he and his companion had already collected. These were to be taken to the bunch ground for identification of ownership and for changing the brands from CM to Wedge and from Lazy Scissors to AW where necessary. The status of any unmarked animals, many sure to be calves or yearlings that had separated from their mothers—and therefore failing to provide the long-accepted source of establishing right to possession—would also need to be determined.
Should ownership be impossible to ascertain, by agreement between Stone Hart, Major Eardle, and Counselor Sutherland speaking on behalf of the two ranches left without proprietors, the mavericks in question would be divided equally between the four spreads. Nor did the problems with the gathered animals end there. Because of the inborn proclivities of the semi-domesticated longhorn cattle to roam vast distances, there would almost certainly be some belonging to spreads outside Spanish Grant County—in which case, the owners would need to be notified by telegraph and arrangements made for collection or some other means of disposal.
Such matters were only a few of the duties required of a roundup captain.
Known only as Dude, the man chosen as the blond giant’s companion had for some time been acquainted with Dusty and the other members of the floating outfit formed at the instigation of General Jackson Baines “Ole Devil” Hardin for the OD Connected ranch in Rio Hondo County, Texas. xiii He had always tended to be a drifter, and although often asked, never took steady employment for any length of time. However, having come on the trail drive by which Stone Hart brought a herd of cattle to Spanish Grant County—although he had not previously been a member of the crew—he had taken a liking to the way things were run and, deciding the time had come for a change in his ways, accepted the offer to stay on at the Wedge ranch.
Good-looking, almost as tall and well-built as Mark, Dude also wore work-stained clothes of the somewhat dandified style, a habit that had given rise to his sobriquet. Nevertheless, to eyes that knew the signs he had the appearance of being a tophand, and indeed he was competent in all aspects of the work he was called upon to carry out. The Peacemakers in the holsters of his well-designed gunbelt had ivory handles but were of the shorter-barreled Artillery Model. While he could not claim the speed that Dusty Fog and the blond giant were capable of, and would never have claimed to be a gunfighter, he had occasionally been compelled to prove himself adequate in matters pistolero to ensure his survival.
Having gone off in search of any cattle that might be in the vicinity, Dude was returning to report that there were none to be found. Topping a ridge brought him into view of Mark and the animals already collected, moving some distance away along the valley below. As he was about to go down the slope, a flock of Gambers quail erupted from the bushes nearby. He idly watched the dainty birds, with their teardrop feather topknots erect, speed away in the manner that made them much sought after as game birds by aficionados of the rapidly developing sport of wing-shooting in those regions of California and Arizona where the species was to be found. Although he could not be included in that number, he enjoyed their succulent taste when prepared by the cook for the Wedge, Chow Willicka, and he wished he had a shotgun with him now. However, he was aware that much work was to be done, and he had not burdened his red-roan gelding with even his Winchester Model of 1873 rifle.
Silently cursing his luck, the cowhand saw the birds suddenly swing away from the clump of bushes toward which they had been flying. Through the bushes he noticed a splash of color not in keeping with its surrounding, since no foliage he had ever seen was of a dark blue hue. Looking closer, he discerned movement and enough partially concealed, but obviously human, shapes to realize that there was something of sinister intent being planned by whoever had caused the quail to change directions.
The supposition was correct.
Having been given instructions to go out and disrupt the work on the roundup, Jack Dromey and Steven Burak had been making their way across the rolling range country toward a spot they believed the first bunch ground would be situated. Although their attire might have led anybody new to the West to assume that they were cowhands, more experienced eyes would have detected enough evidence to know that this assumption was not correct. Regardless of their clothing, they had all the earmarks of hired guns.
Studying cautiously the slope they were ascending, they had seen Mark moving the cattle along the bottom of the valley in their direction. Since they had just recently come south from Wyoming, neither recognized him. Still, after studying his clothing and armament, they concluded that—in addition to serving the purpose for which they had been hired—he would be worth shooting for the loot he had on his person. Leaving their horses tied to saplings beyond the edge of the rim, they had taken Winchester rifles from their saddle boots, cocked each action, and charged the chambers with bullets from the tubular magazines. Then they had advanced without being detected until finding a place offering concealment some fifty yards from where he would have to go by.
Satisfied that they could do so without being detected by their intended victim, Dromey and Burak began to raise the rifles to their shoulders.
Just as the pair of hired guns were aligning their sights, Dude made his presence known in no uncertain fashion.
“Bushwhack right, Mark!” the cowhand bellowed at the top of his voice.
Having delivered what he considered to be a comprehensive warning, although prudence would have suggested he show more caution, Dude drew and cocked his right-hand Colt while setting the red-roan moving forward at a rapid gait. He had no idea who the men in the bushes might be, but he had no doubt they were up to no good. With a friend in danger, that was all he needed to know. However, before he had gone many feet, he sensed that his warning had come too late.
“Take the big ’n’!” Burak snarled when he heard the warning. He started to swing around with the butt of the rifle cradled against the shoulder of the dark-blue shirt that, along with the behavior of the Gambel’s quail, had betrayed his and his companion’s presence in the bushes. “I’ll fix the other bastard’s wagon!”
Without responding verbally, Dromey completed sighting his Winchester and squeezed the trigger. Through the swirl of white smoke from the powder that left the muzzle, he saw the white Stetson jerk away and the blond giant pitch over the left side of the horse to alight on the ground. Startled by the sudden departure of its rider, the gelding went forward a few hurried strides; then its training to remain still when its open-ended reins were allowed to dangle free brought it to a stop.
“I got the big son of a bitch!” exclaimed Dromey, the shorter, more thickset, and younger of the pair.
There was no reply from Burak, who was concentrating on what he was preparing to do. Sighting on the approaching rider, whose horse was being urged to move faster, Burak squeezed off a shot. Crouching forward to offer a smaller target, Dude heard the .44-caliber flat-nosed bullet strike his gelding in the neck. A scream burst from it and, its neck broken, it started to go down. The cowhand’s excellent ability as a rider was all that saved him. Jerking his sharp-toed and high-heeled boots from the stirrup irons, he threw himself aside as the stricken animal collapsed beneath him.
Using the skill he had acquired during a lifetime spent—for some period of each day, at least—on the back of a horse, Dude contrived to alight on his feet without losing his grip on the butt of his Colt. However, appreciating the danger he was still in, he did not attempt to remain erect and use his revolver. Instead, after being narrowly missed by another bullet, he made a plunging bound that carried him behind the nearest bush. He wondered how Mark was faring, but, certain he was still being covered by the rifle that had killed his horse, he did not try to satisfy his curiosity. Instead, he began to advance from cover to cover in the hope of attaining a distance from which he could employ the Colt to greater effect than would have been possible where he alighted.
Satisfied that his bullet had flown as it was intended, Dromey lowered the rifle until it was at arm’s length before him and darted from the bushes. He was determined to reach and help himself to the blond giant’s belongings while Burak was occupied in dealing with the second cowhand. However, as he was leaving the shelter of the bushes, he discovered he had made a terrible mistake.
Dude’s warning had been uttered just in time. A quick glance to his right had told Mark all he needed to know. Putting to use his superb coordination and capability for rapid movement, he was thrusting himself to the left when a shot was fired his way. Judging by the way in which the Stetson was ripped from his head, the lead passing through the top of its crown without touching his skull, he knew he had had a very narrow escape.
Like every cowhand, the blond giant had acquired expertise in all facets of riding. Despite his size and bulk, this riding skill allowed him to go down without feeling more than a jolt and alight on the springy grass of the valley’s bottom. Going down, he brought the right-side Colt from its holster and twisted onto his side so the weapon was concealed by his body. When he saw the hired gun coming from the bushes, he lay still to give the impression that he had been hit. He was aware that the distance separating them favored the man and rifle, so he hoped to shorten it before letting the truth of the matter become apparent. He managed to glance around without being detected after hearing the rifle shot from the bushes and the scream of Dude’s stricken horse, and he was relieved to see that his companion had not been hurt. He continued to lie still.
Dromey ran from the concealment offered by the bushes and had halved the distance between himself and his supposed victim when he discovered his error. Although Mark would have preferred to allow his attacker to come closer before making his move, the blond giant concluded that he could not do so. There was another man with a rifle in the bushes whose movements needed to be accounted for, except that Dude—who was armed only with revolvers—still appeared to be holding his attention. Which meant that Mark might be called upon to help his companion, and this required that he be left free to play his part without further threat from the one who was in view.
Thrusting himself into a sitting position as swiftly as he could manage, the blond giant drew on his experiences as a gunfighter as he assessed the situation. Not only was his attacker carrying the Winchester that had come so close to sending lead into him, but the distance between them still favored the rifle over Mark’s Cavalry Model Peacemaker. He concluded that there was only one solution that might serve him under the prevailing conditions, and he immediately sought to put it into effect. Locking his right elbow against his side while instinctively aligning the Colt, he squeezed the trigger and sent off the first shot. His instincts warned him that he had missed, but he was ready to cope with that contingency.
Having fired, the blond giant swiftly brought around his cupped left hand so its palm caught the spur of the hammer. With the trigger still held back, the motion caused another bullet to be discharged. Then the sequence was repeated in very rapid succession. When performed by an expert, there was no faster way to operate the single-action mechanism of the Peacemaker, which required manual cocking between shots. Because of his great strength, Mark was especially adept at this maneuver.
At each detonation, contriving to control the considerable recoil kick, the blond giant moved the barrel slightly and the bullets flew on divergent courses. The first three missed, but by a decreasing margin each time. Flying more by chance than intent, the fourth took Dromey just above his right hip. A moment later, the fifth plowed into the left side of his lower torso. Although the sixth went by harmlessly, Dromey staggered back a few steps from the double hit. However, he did not fall down, and he retained his hold on the rifle.
Letting the empty revolver drop from his hand, Mark came to his feet with a surging bound. Almost as soon as he was erect, he saw that Dromey was starting to raise the Winchester to a firing position in spite of his wounds, and he knew what must be done. Descending, he instinctively cocked the hammer of the other Colt with his left hand and brought it from its holster. He would have simply used his left hand if the range had been shorter, but he took the brief instant required to perform the so-called border shift, tossing the gun so his right fingers and thumb closed around the ivory butt. His left joined them, and he brought the revolver to shoulder level at arm’s length. The method permitted more accurate shooting than would otherwise have been possible, and the blond giant put this improvement to good use.
His attacker clearly meant to carry on the fight, and despite being injured, held a weapon with a greater potential for accuracy over the distance between them. Therefore, Mark aligned the barrel of the Peacemaker in the only way that would meet the needs of the situation. When it crashed, a hole appeared in the center of Dromey’s forehead and the lead burst out at the back of his skull. Although Dromey was killed instantly, a reflex action caused him to squeeze the trigger of the rifle he had been lining at Mark. However, the barrel had been sufficiently deflected for the lead to miss its intended target by a few inches, and the hired gun would never be able to make another try.
