Goodnight's Dream (A Floating Outfit Western Book 4) (6 page)

‘
Yahoo!’ Austin whooped,
having been close enough to hear the words. ‘It’s not
resting
I’m fixing to
do.’

‘
You spook that herd and I know what
you’ll be doing!’ Poe growled.

‘
They’ll not spook easy if you put them
on good grazing and water,’ Goodnight remarked to
Hunter.

‘
Good. If you’ll accompany me to the
Fort, I’ll attend to your payment.’

‘
I’ll need some of it to pay off my
crew,’ Goodnight admitted. ‘And John, I know the boys figure to
drink the town dry. But make sure they remember that the War’s over
and I don’t want it starting again.’

When the soldiers took charge of the
bedded-down cattle, the trail crew headed for town at a gallop.
Thundering along the main—and only—street, they brought their
horses to a halt outside the Yellow Stripe saloon. Inside its
doors, Goodnight was waiting with money to pay off his crew. The
customers and staff of the saloon stared at the stacks of gold
coins and paper notes in front of the bearded rancher and tried to
estimate how much they amounted to.

‘
What’s this stuff, anyways?’ Austin
whooped, accepting his pay. ‘Is it what my pappy calls cash money
and used to talk about afore mammy stopped him?’

‘
It for sure is,’ Spat agreed, jingling
coins in his hands. ‘Least, I reckon it is. That gent behind the
bar there’ll likely tell us for sure.’

Knowing what was expected of him, Goodnight
led the way to the bar on completing the payout. Handing money
across the counter, he called for drinks on the house. That brought
a rush of customers as townsmen and soldiers gathered to accept the
rancher’s bounty. Among them were the Artillery sergeant major and
the cavalry sergeant who had stayed behind as escort for the herd
during the latter stages of the journey and some of their men who
had enjoyed Texas hospitality on the trail.

‘
Man, I needed that!’
young Austin whooped, up-ending four-fingers of whiskey and
smacking his lips appreciatively. ‘Same again, barkeep, and for
the
senorita
here.’

Having expected a roaring night’s trade, the
owner of the saloon had brought in a number of pretty Mexican girls
from the local cat-houses. One of them stood at Austin’s elbow,
giggling her delight as he hugged her, and the bartender placed a
drink before her.

‘
Not for me right now,’ Goodnight
replied when the youngster offered him a drink. ‘I’m going to see
Oliver.’

‘
Sure hope he’s all right,’ Austin said
seriously. ‘Of all the stinking—’

‘
He wouldn’t want you boys thinking
sorrowful about him,’ Goodnight pointed out. ‘Have some fun
tonight, you’ve earned it, all of you.’ With that he turned to
where Poe stood talking to the two non-coms. ‘John, see the boys
have fun, but hold it down if they get too rowdy.’

‘
I’ll see to it,’
the
segundo
promised.

Leaving the saloon, Goodnight took his horse
and rode out to the Fort. There he visited the hospital and learned
that Loving’s condition remained the same. The surgeon in charge
was gloomy about the cattleman’s chances and, seeing his partner’s
unconscious face, pale and wracked with pain, Goodnight felt deeply
concerned. However, the rancher wanted to return to his men. Being
aware of how easily the flames of Civil War hatred could rise, he
wished to prevent any trouble starting between his men and the
locals on that score. He could trust his foreman, but knew his own
presence would be a big inducement to holding tempers in check.

Approaching the saloon, Goodnight heard
singing. Maybe it was not the best music he had ever heard, but it
rang out with gusto and gave every evidence of its makers’ high
spirits. For all that, the rancher felt a touch worried as he made
out the words.

Lo, the beacon fires are lighted!

Let all true hearts now stand united!

To arms! To arms! To arms in Dixie!

Swinging from his horse, the
rancher tossed its reins over the hitching rail and strode swiftly
towards the saloon’s bat-wing doors. With the second verse of
General Samuel Pike, C.S.A.’s highly patriotic lyrics to
Emmett’s
Dixie
blaring out in full-throated chorus, he figured that he had
better intervene and divert the singers to a less explosive choice
of music. Even as he reached out a hand to open the door, the thing
he feared happened.

Lurching from a table at the side of the
barroom, a big, burly, unshaven man came to a halt in the center of
the floor.

He wore dirty range clothing, a filthy
Burnside campaign hat and a U.S. Cavalry weapon belt with a
revolver in its high-riding twist-hand draw holster. However, his
scruffy appearance argued against his belonging to the Army.

‘
Stop that damned row!’ the man bawled.
‘I’m not having any lousy rebel song sung here.’

Instantly the atmosphere of genial enjoyment
faded and the singing died away. A low mumble of talk rose among
the locals, while the soldiers present eyed the cowhands in a
speculative manner. Bringing their song to a halt, the Texans
studied the burly objector. Austin took his arm from around the
waist of a pretty Mexican girl and moved forward until he stood
clear of his companions, lifting his right hand until it hovered
over the butt of his Colt.

‘
You’re not, huh?’ the youngster
purred.

‘
The hell I am!’ spat the burly man, a
typical range-town loafer, or Goodnight had never seen the breed.
‘We licked you rebs once and—’

Knowing that something must be done, and done
fast, Goodnight prepared to enter. However, he saw the Artillery
sergeant major step from Poe’s side and ask, ‘Who’d you fight for
in the War, feller?’

‘
Huh?’ grunted the big man, clearly not
having expected the question. His sullen face turned towards the
non-com. ‘Why I fought for the Union, same’s all these other
gents.’

Across the room, the group of men indicated
by the Union-supporter muttered their agreement. They were of the
same general social-class as Herb Crutch and their sole claim to
the title ‘gents’ came from being his cronies. Cautious by nature,
they waited to see the run of general public opinion before taking
a definite stand on the issue. It seemed that the soldiers present
did not give their unquestioned support to Crutch.

‘
I mean what outfit
did
you
lick the rebs with?’ the sergeant major clarified, ignoring
everybody but Crutch.

The burly man seemed
disinclined to answer. However, the information was not long in
coming. Having taken in more money so far that evening than in any
previous full-night’s business, the bartender had no desire to kill
off the golden goose. Nor had he any great liking for Crutch, whose
custom
rarely extended beyond buying a beer, in return for which
he delved deeply in the free-lunch counter. So the bartender, a
brawny man capable of ignoring Crutch’s opinions, provided details
of the other’s war service.

‘
He never served in no outfit, Sarge.
Fact being, he spent the whole War out here hoss-catching for the
Army.’

Which was just about what the sergeant major
figured. He had noticed before how men of Crutch’s kind became
vocal about dealing with the enemy but generally avoided taking any
risks while doing it.

‘
Then bill out, stop-at-home!’ growled
the sergeant major.

‘
Yeah,’ agreed the cavalry sergeant,
ranging himself alongside the other non-com. ‘I’m gut-full of
fellers who sat on their butts at home, picking their noses all
through the shooting, trying to keep the War going.’

‘
And me,’ the sergeant major continued.
‘Only the stupid sons-of-a-bitch who want the War to go on didn’t
fight in it. And I never saw you hanging back when one of these
Texas gents called up drinks for the house.’

‘
Nor m—!’ Austin began.

A big hand clamped hold of his arm, crushing
it and he swung his head to look into the coldly-warning face of
Rowdy Lincoln.

‘
Leave be,’ ordered the cook. ‘Those
gents’re doing it right. Colonel Charlie says he wants things
peaceable and peaceable they’re going to stay.’

For all the faults of youth, Austin was smart
enough to know when to listen. Not only did Rowdy have muscles to
back his demands, but his position as cook gave him the means of
wreaking a suitable revenge on anybody who crossed him. So Austin
returned to the waiting girl.

Scowling around, Crutch saw no support to his
stand for the glory of the Union. Even his especial cronies showed
reluctance to back his play. Taking their cue from the two
non-coms, the soldiers refused to be sucked into attempts at
restarting the Civil War. For the most part, the town-dwellers
present did not care for the hulking, idle Crutch and saw no reason
to antagonize a potential source of revenue on his behalf. Finding
himself deserted by all, Crutch knew better than try to take the
matter further. With a snarled-out, inaudible blanket curse, he
turned and slouched towards the main doors. Seeing Goodnight just
entering the saloon, Crutch’s surly temper led him into
recklessness.

‘
Get the hell out of my way,
beef-head!’ Crutch snarled.

Which, as any of the Swinging G trail crew
could have warned him, was no way to address Colonel Charlie
Goodnight. Maybe the rancher desired a peaceable evening; but there
were limits to how far he would go to achieve his desire. Certainly
backing down to Crutch would not do it. Let a man of that kind get
away with such behavior and he would try further abuses. So
Goodnight continued to walk forward.

‘
I’m going across to the
bar,
hombre,’
the rancher said calmly and without bluster, meeting the
other’s threatening gaze, ‘and I’m too tired to walk round
you.’

There Crutch had it. His challenge had been
taken up and countered. Sensing that every eye in the saloon was on
him, he knew he must try to make some play. It was that or get out
of Fort Sumner as a braggart who failed to back up his words.

Something about Goodnight’s stocky, powerful
frame warned Crutch against attempting a physical assault. Which
left only one other course open. Letting out a menacing snarl, the
loafer reached towards his holster—and learned a basic, but deadly
dangerous fault in its construction. To take out his revolver, he
had first to open the holster’s flap. The same did not apply to
Goodnight. Dropping his right hand, the stocky rancher gripped and
raised the waiting Colt from leather. In doing so, he cocked back
its hammer and lined the eight-inch-long barrel on Crutch’s ample
mid-section.

Shock licked into the burly man as he found
himself looking at the .44 bore of Goodnight’s Army Colt. He
realized that, despite making the first move, he was far, far too
slow. Nor would anybody present blame the rancher if he let the
hammer fall.

Goodnight was no trigger-wild killer with a
yen to see victims kicking at his feet; for which Crutch might have
thought himself fortunate. Instead of shooting, he waited until the
frightened man’s hand dropped away from the holster flap, lowered
his Colt’s hammer to the safety notch between two of the cylinder’s
chambers and returned the weapon to leather.

‘
I’m still going to the bar,’ the
rancher announced flatly. ‘And I’m still too tired to walk around
you.’

Gulping down something that seemed to be
stuck in his throat, Crutch moved hurriedly aside. Without even
another glance at the man, Goodnight continued his leisurely stroll
in the direction of the bar. Although a spectacular-appearing act,
the rancher knew it to be comparatively safe. With so many men
watching him, Crutch would be unlikely to take the chance offered
by Goodnight’s back. Nor did he. Moving with considerably more than
usual speed, the loafer passed through the batwing doors and into
the night.

The sergeant major let out a low sigh of
relief, then nodded to a tall, swarthy, black haired member of his
Battery. Finishing his drink, the soldier made for a side door and
went out. If Goodnight noticed the incident, he made no mention of
it. Instead he made a start at relieving the tension which he
sensed still hovered in the background, caused by the nature of the
song that had sparked off Crutch’s protests.

‘
We’ve had
Dixie,’
the rancher told
his men. ‘Now let’s have
Yankee-Doodle,
shall we?’

Led by John Poe and Rowdy
Lincoln, the Texans roared out a lusty—if not over-musical—response
to their boss’s request. Even Austin joined in. With the cook’s
coldly menacing eyes on him, he could do nothing else. Their
spirited rendering of
Yankee-Doodle
worked and the supporters of the Union
accepted it in the right spirit. After which a good evening’s fun
was had by all.

For all his having taken a full share in the
revelry, Goodnight was clean, tidy and barbered next morning when
he went to face the Army’s cattle-buying commission. Nor did his
face show the deep worry he felt over his partner’s worsened
condition. Much as he had wanted to stay at the hospital in case
Loving recovered from the coma, Goodnight had forced himself to
attend the meeting. He had arranged to be notified if there was any
change, then went to the building where the commission met.