The Floating Outfit 65, page 7
“Not you, Lee,” Dusty replied. “I want you to go into town and tell the marshal what’s happened. You know this range better than either Lon or me and can make better time.”
Even wild with anger and grief over Gaff’s death, Lee could see the wisdom in Dusty’s words. Slowly the objections died unsaid and he looked down once more at the stiff, still form of his old friend.
“How about—him?” the youngster asked. “We can’t just leave him lying there, those buzzards—”
“I’ll tend to it,” promised the Kid. “Loan me your bandana.”
While removing his bandana, Lee watched the Kid bend and untie Gaff’s from around the distorted neck. Using the old man’s bandana to cover the head, the Kid placed a rock on each corner. Then he took the cloth offered by Lee and fastened it by two corners on a nearby bush, leaving it to sway and blow in the breeze.
“Buzzards are mighty suspicious critters,” he told the other two. “They’ll not come down while that’s moving.”
“Make a fast run to town,” Dusty ordered. “And ask Garve Green to bring any cat-hounds that he can lay his hands on.”
“Sure,” the youngster replied dubiously. “How about you, Cap’n?”
“We’ll take the trail, see if we can find that damned cougar.”
Lee nodded his head. Much as he wanted to help follow and take revenge on the animal, whatever it might be, that caused Gaff’s death, he realized that his duty lay in arranging for the body’s collection and return to the ranch for burial.
“Tell Joe Vasquez I’ll blaze the trail for him,” the Kid remarked. “We’ll not be travelling fast and they’ll catch up with us.”
“Are there any cat-hounds around town?” Dusty asked.
“Major Calverly has four blueticks over to his spread,” Lee replied. “Only I don’t know if he’ll bring ’em out to help us.”
“Maybe Garve Green’ll be able to persuade him,” Dusty said. “Happen the Major’s like every other hound-dog man I’ve met, he’ll jump at the chance of helping run down a cougar as big as this one.”
In no way was Dusty slighting his amigo’s tracking ability by sending word for a pack of hounds to help hunt down Gaff’s killer. The Kid had few peers in following a trail, but could only move slowly on so difficult a task. Using hounds would speed the search and give them a better chance of coming up to the animal—Dusty held back from thinking of it as a cougar—they sought.
Never had the Kid’s skill been given such a test. Among the fighting Indian tribes, the most severe test of a young brave’s ability had always been to track down and kill a cougar and only a few succeeded in doing so. After a final glance around, the Kid turned to Dusty.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Already Lee had mounted and the youngster started his horse moving in the direction of Robertstown. Much as he hated walking, Dusty knew he must do so. The Kid could never follow so difficult a trail from the back of his horse or at any more than a slow walk.
Moving slowly, his eyes studied the ground some distance ahead and noted any slight variations. A stone overturned, a piece of scuffed earth, crushed down grass, all those helped the Kid. Using his knowledge, the Kid reconstructed what happened the previous night. After missing with its rush, the cougar still kept after the horse for a time. Realizing at last that it could not catch up to the horse, the cougar halted, stood for a time watching its departing prey, then swung off and went off at an angle to where Gaff’s body lay.
While able to follow the tracks, the Kid never saw a clear indication of the kind of animal he trailed. He hoped to find a clear track, enabling him to see the shape of the animal’s foot, but this did not materialize. However by gauging the distance between the feet he formed an impression of the size and could even make a guess at the weight. The estimation surprised him, but he felt sure he was right in it. From the stride, he figured the cougar to be around six feet six long, not counting the tail. The weight puzzled him. A cougar tended to be a long, slender animal, but unless he missed his guess the one he trailed would weigh around three hundred pounds.
“I’ve never seen a big Texas cat that went over two hundred,” Dusty commented when the Kid mentioned his findings. “And even those real big puma in the Rocky Mountains don’t reach two fifty according to Kerry Barran.”
“Reckon he knows as much about them as anybody,” drawled the Kid, for the man in question acted as a professional hunting guide in addition to running a successful horse ranch and made the Rocky Mountains his favorite area. viii “Only this cat weighs just like I say.”
Dusty had sufficient faith in his companion to accept the estimate and worked out what the figures meant. With a head and body length of six feet six, the trail ought to take the cat to at least nine foot. Even so, the normal cougar would not be so heavy at that size.
“I suppose it is a cougar we’re after, Lon,” Dusty said.
“What else could it be?” the Kid replied. “A bear’s claws’d show all the time, not just when they dig in before a charge.”
“How about one of those spotted cats down in Mexico, jaguars?”
“El tigre,” drawled the Kid, using the Mexican name. “I don’t know, they do grow to a fair size.”
“Only Gaff would have noticed the spots,” Dusty said.
“There’s that,” agreed the Kid.
Letting the matter drop, they moved on in silence and with the horses following like well-trained hound-dogs. Dusty kept behind and to one side of the Kid, watching the range ahead and allowing his amigo to concentrate on the tracks without fear of an ambush. The direction they took led them in a half circle and down towards the distant river. Beyond the river lay the brooding, rocky slopes of the Wapiti Hills. There was something sinister about the barren hill range, a feeling that evil reigned among them. Dusty tried to shake off the feeling that perhaps they trailed a creature unknown on the Western ranges, but the gloomy hills—not even the well-risen sun made them look any more cheerful or pleasant—helped to keep the feeling going. Apparently it affected the Kid too; possibly more so, as at such a time his Indian blood was well to the fore.
“I’ll be starting to believe in spirit-critters soon,” he growled, halting glaring at the Hills. “They do say bullets are no use against them.”
“Happen we come up with it,” Dusty answered. “I’ll for sure see if they told the truth.”
Another mile fell behind them and at last the Kid halted. He pointed to the ground, but Dusty could read little or nothing from it.
“Crouched down here,” the Kid explained. “Started to make a stalk on something or other.” He pointed to some marks. “Here’s the claw marks, just like back there. Critter dug them in ready to shove off with a rush.”
Not far ahead the earth had been churned up and blood showed but the tracks ended abruptly, showing that the animal had sprung from the ground at its intended victim. Beyond the scuffle lay the unmistakable marks left by a heavy body being dragged along the ground.
Topping a rise, they saw the victim—a large bull wapiti. “God damn it, Dusty!” the Kid breathed. “I’ve seen a full grown black bear killed by a bull elk.”
Again the eerie feeling crept over Dusty and he nodded. A full grown range cow could not be termed an easy mark, but a bull wapiti was an even more dangerous proposition. As a member of the deer family, the wapiti had speed and agility. It also weighed upwards of nine hundred pounds and carried long powerful antlers with six sharp-pointed tines a side and knew how to use them. Even a grizzly bear, undisputed monarch of the Great Plains before the coming of reliable firearms, only took on a bull wapiti as a last resort.
“No sign of the—the cougar,” said the Kid, searching the surrounding area. “Most likely laid up after feeding.”
“Could be up one of those trees, among the bushes, anywhere,” Dusty replied. “Let’s go down and see.”
Knowing that a cougar would always run from human beings, Dusty and the Kid still took no chances as they advanced towards the kill. That animal they followed showed a lot of un-cougar habits; enough to make the Texans wary. They reached the body without incident and halted to examine it.
“Right foreleg’s bust,” the Kid said. “Bent inwards and most likely happened when that critter jumped it.”
“Could be,” Dusty replied, wondering why the wapiti did not react fast enough to defend itself against the charge. “It’s been gutted like the other. Eaten the same way, too. Thighs, heart, liver, ribs. But it’s not been covered over.”
“Likely the bear did that, drove off the cougar afore it ate its fill. That was why it tried to jump Gaff and kept moving. It was hungry and hunting.”
The thought that the bear could chase their mysterious prey off its kill gave the Texans some slight relief. If a bear could scare it, then a Sharps rifle bullet ought to be real potent medicine. Dusty looked at the Kid and grinned. “It’s those damned hills,” the small Texan said.
“They’re sure scary,” agreed the Kid. “No wonder that the Apaches wouldn’t go near them. The tracks go off towards them rocks.”
For all their relief, the Texans did not relax as they approached the rocks. Maybe that cougar had been chased off by a bear, but it could be dangerous if cornered and possessed the deadly armament of its kind in addition to sufficient size and weight to make its presence felt.
The tracks led under the shelter of an overhanging rock and from the signs the big cat had rested there, but was gone before the Texans arrived. Not long gone, or the Kid missed his guess. Bending, he raked together some hairs and turned to show them to Dusty.
“Look like a cougar’s all right,” the small Texan drawled. “Only I’ve never seen one do much moving around in daylight. Did we scare him off?”
“Nope, he pulled out maybe a quarter of an hour back, headed for the river. Happen the wind holds from him to us, we might catch up.”
“Let’s make a try,” Dusty said.
Taking the trail once more, the Texans followed it at a slightly faster pace. Before they could cover a hundred yards up a slope which probably overlooked the river—they could hear the sound of the water—something happened to halt them in their tracks.
A roar shattered the air, yet of a kind the like of which the Kid had never heard before. It was not the deep, awesome bellow of a grizzly bear, nor the saw-rasping note of el tigre in a rage, but still a sound charged with menace—and not any noise he had ever heard made by a cougar.
“What the hell—?” he began.
Dusty did not reply. Memory rushed back to the small Texan as he recollected where last he heard such a sound. Impossible as it seemed, he recognized the roar and knew what made it. He also could guess how Gaff came to die and why the bull wapiti failed to react in time to defend itself.
There was no time to explain theories to the Kid, Dusty realized as he heard another sound mingled with the roar from beyond the rim. Springing forward, forgetting his aching feet, he went bounding up the slope and prayed that he might reach the top in time.
Chapter Seven – A Tolerable Hunk of a Man
“YOU SURE CAN pick a pleasant trail, Mark,” commented Miss Martha Jane Canary, eyeing the surrounding walls, sheer cliffs, barren slopes and iron hard earth of the Wapiti Hills with some disgust.
“It saves three days riding, Calam,” Mark replied. “Which same I need some saving, Cousin Beauregard sure throws a whing-ding when he celebrates.”
“You late meeting up with Dusty?” asked the girl.
“Nope, but I sure will happen I had to go round.”
On the face of it, Mark Counter had little to fear from Dusty Fog either physically or as an employee of the OD Connected ranch.
Sat astride his huge bloodbay stallion, Mark’s six feet three inches of height did not show, although he towered well over his companion. Nothing could hide the great spread of his shoulders and his enormous biceps showed under the material of his expensive tan, made-to-measure shirt. He slimmed down at the waist curving out two long, powerful legs, giving him the muscular development of a Hercules. Topping his golden blond hair, a costly white J. B. Stetson shielded an almost classically handsome face, tanned, intelligent and strong. Around his waist hung a gunbelt tooled by a master craftsman, its holsters designed to give the maximum speed to withdrawing the matched ivory handled Colt Cavalry Peacemakers. A man with such a development need not fear even the deadly techniques used by Dusty Fog.
Nor would being fired cause Mark any discomfort. While something of a dandy dresser—his clothing now set cowhand fashion as during the War it commanded the respect of the dress-conscious bloods of the Confederate Army—he could claim to be a master at cattle work; some said even better than Dusty Fog. Such a man could easily find employment. If it came to a point, Mark had the means to set himself up in a business without working for other men. The third son of a rich Texas rancher, he was wealthy in his own right due to a maiden aunt leaving him her considerable fortune when she died. For all that, Mark preferred to ride as a hand, not just an ordinary working hand true, but a member of Ole Devil’s floating outfit and right bower to Dusty Fog.
Folk talked of Mark’s strength, his skill in a brawl, but few enough could say of his ability with his Colts. Those who knew, and they numbered some of the top names in the gun-fighting line, claimed Mark to be second only to Dusty Fog in speed and accuracy. So it seemed that Mark need fear nothing from being late.
Since their first meeting, down in Mexico shortly after the end of the War, ix Mark had come to know how Dusty hated lack of punctuality. The small Texan had no desire to delay his return to the Rio Hondo and Mark possessed sufficient loyalty to the brand to agree with Dusty. On visiting his cousins’ ranch, Mark found a wedding imminent and could hardly ride on without enjoying the celebrations. As he told Miss Canary, his cousin’s hospitality tended to be lavish and Mark found himself with only the bare minimum of time to reach the rendezvous at Robertstown.
Mark’s cousin told how one could go through the Wapiti Hills, provided he took water and food along. A trail wide enough for use by a wagon passed through the hills; but was not used due to lack of water and grazing. Knowing that the forty mile trip would take two to three days by wagon, Mark figured he could do it in one on his horse. So he loaded supplies of water and food on a pack pony before leaving his cousin’s place and rode out secure in the knowledge that the short-cut would bring him to Robertstown in good time.
Meeting Miss Canary on the trail came as something of a surprise, especially when he learned that she headed in his direction. Of course, having her along tended to be a mixed blessing; but Mark enjoyed her company and not because she could claim to be something of a famous person in her own right.
Not that many folks would recognize the name Martha Jane Canary. Say Calamity Jane, though in any saloon, freight outfit, trail drive camp or army post west of the Mississippi and there would be no doubt who was meant. Calamity Jane, many were the stories of her exploits and varied the tales of how she came to rise to fame.
Shorn of all romanticism, Calamity had been left in a St. Louis convent by her mother, fled it at sixteen and became accepted as a member of Dobe Killem’s freight outfit. From the drivers, she learned to use a gun, hitch, care for and handle a six-horse wagon team and use the long lashed bull whip which was the freight hauler’s tool, weapon and badge of office. The name Calamity came from her ability to find trouble and a penchant to become involved in hair-yanking brawls while visiting saloons, generally managing to entangle her fellow drivers in the ensuing fuss. Despite that habit, she had their respect; gained by her courage, good hearted generosity and many other sterling qualities.
After several hectic meetings, Mark felt much the same as the Killem outfit about the girl; but he regarded her as a mixed blessing. Of course it seemed highly unlikely that they would meet any trouble along that barren trail and Miss Canary’s business ought to keep her too busy in Robertstown to land them in a saloon fuss.
A battered U.S. cavalry kepi perched jauntily on her short mop of curly red hair. Health, zest for living and a lively sense of humor showed on her freckled face, which, while not truly beautiful, was attractive enough to draw glances in any company. If her looks did not, then her choice of clothing would. The weather being warm, she had left off her fringed buckskin jacket and fastened it to the cantle of her fancy buckskin gelding’s saddle. Tight enough for her to appear molded into it, the man’s tartan shirt emphasized the round fullness of her bosom and was open low enough at its neck to remove any doubts as to her sex. Her Levi’s pants looked like they had been bought a mite too small and shrunk in washing. Cinched about her trim waist, the pants showed the rich curves of her hips and shapely thighs. Indian moccasins decorated her feet. Around her waist hung a gunbelt with an ivory handled Navy Colt, rechambered to take metal cartridges, butt forward in her holster. Thrust into her waist band, she carried the long-lashed bull whip specially built for her and in the use of which she could claim to be something of a maestro.
Sat astride her horse, she was five feet seven of rich femininity and defiance of convention; a girl born with a love of adventure and possessing sufficient courage to go out to look for it.
“If we’d gone around, it’d’ve been three nights on the trail,” she pointed out.
“I thought of that too,” grinned Mark. “Which’s one of the reasons why I’m going through here.”
“But this way we’ll only have one more night.”
“Yeah!” agreed Mark pointedly.
“I’m damned if you’re not getting old,” sniffed Calamity. “Time was—”
After following the bottom of a valley for a time, the trail had climbed up to run along one side. On either side of the valley was too steep for any horse to traverse it, with jagged rocks waiting to tear into flesh should such a foolish attempt be made. The trail was safe enough, with sufficient width for two riders side by side to feel no concern. Not far away, the valley curved with its other side hidden from the approaching riders. Certain sounds from around the curve caused Calamity’s words.
