by J. T. Edson
“I’ll be able to see you in town,” Myra was tactless enough to remark.
“That wouldn’t be advisable,” Donglar put in hurriedly, before Anthea could speak and directing a confidential glance at her. Then he twisted his head the younger sister’s way and favored her with a knowing wink that Anthea failed to see. “We have to prevent people in town from guessing that we’re acquainted. Out here, a ‘good’ woman—and you’ll be in that classification Myra—doesn’t associate with people like me.”
“In fact it would be better if you gave the impression that you completely disapproved of Charles,” Anthea put in. “We can’t have people thinking you know each other, can we?”
“Of course we can’t,” answered Myra with such complete agreement that Anthea threw her a cold, searching glance.
Much to his relief, the two sisters declined to give each other any opportunity to see Donglar alone while he packed his belongings. Never had he expected to find himself running away from such a situation, in fact, he had often dreamed of finding himself in a position where more than one woman eagerly sought his attentions. Like many another man, he had discovered that realizing a dream often turned its pleasantness into a nightmare.
Not until sometime after Donglar’s departure did the sisters meet again. They watched him ride away and then went to their rooms. Supper brought them together in the dining-room and Myra remembered an item of news gathered in town—one which might have changed Donglar’s plans had he heard it.
“The Ortega woman told me that Dusty Fog is coming here,” she said.
The gravity of the words did not strike Anthea. “Is he?” she said. “That’s fortunate for us. I thought that it would be weeks, or months, before those wanted posters set men looking for him. Now he’ll be here and I can arrange for his death myself.”
Chapter Seven – I Didn’t Trust You Either
WHOEVER DESIGNED THE lay-out of Pasear Hennessey’s western establishment possessed a firm understanding of the special needs of its clientele. Standing in the center of a wide valley, it offered shelter from the elements, comfort after a long, hard ride—and stood a mere quarter of a mile from the international border’s line. While a man enjoyed the varied pleasures of Hennessey’s hospitality, he could be sure that on the roof above stood a look-out specially selected for alertness, reliability and fabulous eye-sight, alternately watching to north, east and west; the southerly direction offered no danger. Once a look-out had been caught asleep at his post and what Pasear Hennessey, the genial host, did to that man ensured that none of his replacements repeated the lapse.
Although he knew that the look-out watched him, Waco made no attempt to turn back, hide or evade the scrutiny. Instead he rode the powerful buckskin, one of his relay, towards the long, one-floor adobe building and directed numerous glances towards his back-trail in a manner the look-out regarded as being completely normal and natural in a prospective customer. Reaching the front of the building, Waco swung from his horse and left it secured to the hitching rail along with several other fine-looking mounts already tied there. A frown creased his face as he stepped on to the porch and saw one of the wanted posters bearing Dusty’s name fastened alongside the doors. Remembering his orders, he made no attempt to tear down the offending document. Instead he thrust open the double batwing doors and entered the big bar-room, acting in a manner calculated to lull the occupants’ suspicions.
The bar-room took up all the front half of the building and for such an isolated spot contained a remarkable degree of comfort. Of course the clientele, men on the run from the law and headed to the safety of Mexico, invariably had fair sums of money about their persons and Hennessey, a shrewd businessman, gave them a chance to spend some of their wealth. Several hard-eyed, gun-hung men sat scattered about the room, eating, drinking, being entertained by Hennessey’s female staff or trying to beat the house’s percentage and win at the various gambling games. Facing the front door across the width of the room was the bar, long and shiny. Behind it stood a large, heavily-built man with bay rum slicked hair and a face which showed mixed Irish-Spanish parentage. Turning from the serving hatch at which he had been speaking to somebody in the kitchen, he gave the newcomer as close a scrutiny as did the customers. Pasear Hennessey’s eyes narrowed as he recognized Waco as a son of the Lone Star State. Then Hennessey relaxed. While expecting a visit by a Texan, or group of Texans, this current member of the species was not one of the expected.
Watching the cat-cautious manner in which Waco entered the room, studied its occupants, then made his way to a table near the doors and took a seat with his back to the wall, Hennessey drew the conclusions the youngster intended he should. Since parting company with Dusty, Mark and Doc, Waco had ridden hard, so he presented a significant gaunt, unwashed and unshaven appearance. Also, most of his growing years had been spent among a certain class of men and he could mimic their manner and ways perfectly. Hennessey had not the slightest doubt, studying Waco, that the youngster was on the run and headed hurriedly for the safety of the border.
“Bring me a meal,” Waco ordered, conscious of Hennessey’s scrutiny, as a waiter came to the table.
“And tequila, señor?”
“Sure, but not until I’ve eaten.”
Having satisfied himself that Waco was persona grata, Hennessey tried to decide whether the youngster would be worth cultivating. Among his other services, the saloonkeeper acted as an employment bureau—taking an impartial fee from both employer and work-seeker. He wondered which of his clients might like the services of such an obviously efficient young man. Of course, finding an employer depended on whether the young man could accept work in the United States or if his past infringements of the law meant that he must stay below the Mexican border for a time.
Before Hennessey could decide on how to approach the tricky business of gaining Waco’s confidence, he found himself called to the door alongside the bar, and which led into the rear section of the building, to deal with some administration problem. By the time Hennessey found himself free again, Waco had finished the meal, and the drumming of approaching hooves heralded the arrival of another customer. Hennessey waited to see who the new arrival might be.
A tall young Texas man carrying an exceptionally fine Winchester rifle stepped into the room. For a moment Hennessey stared, then as recognition came he felt his nerves twang a nervous warning. Despite the gray shirt, blue jeans and lack of the sheathed bowie knife at the left side—and in the face of Hennessey’s grim-given warnings to the lookout—the Ysabel Kid stood before the saloon-keeper, cold red-hazel eyes studying him sardonically.
“Howdy, Pasear,” greeted the Kid, advancing some twenty feet into the center of the room and facing the bar.
“Hola, Cabrito!” Hennessey answered in a louder voice than necessary. “I was not expecting you.”
“No?” smiled the Kid, holding his rifle negligently in the right hand, thumb curled around the small of the butt, three fingers through the loading lever, forefinger on the delicately adjusted set-trigger, barrel slanting harmlessly at the floor. “Now me, I’d say you’ve been expecting me ever since you hung that poster on the wall outside.”
Silence fell on the room, all activities churning to a halt as interest swung to the tall, Indian-dark young man. Possibly only Hennessey recognized the Kid in his change of clothing, but all had seen the reward poster and wondered if the newcomer might have arrived with proof of Dusty Fog’s death and to collect the bounty.
“And what brought you here, Cabrito?” asked Hennessey, still speaking far louder than he needed if merely addressing the Kid.
“I want to know where a man can collect that bounty and who put it on.”
“A man in my position cannot betray a confidence, Cabrito.”
“Reckon not,” agreed the Kid mildly and, without giving a hint of what he aimed to do, brought up the rifle, its foregrip slapping into the palm of the waiting left hand, the barrel trained directly on the man behind the
bar. “Just keep your hands where I can see them, Pasear, and then let’s see why you keep on yelling my name.”
A moment later in raising the rifle and the Kid would have died without a chance. Even as he finished giving out his warning, the Kid saw two shotguns come into view and line on him. The first inched its way through the serving hatch at Hennessey’s left, although its user managed to keep well concealed. Gun number two crept into view through the crack of the door alongside the bar and added its twin-barreled menace to the Kid’s life.
“Don’t shoot, either of you!” Hennessey spat out in rapid, urgent Spanish and cursed his rotten luck.
“Wouldn’t be wise at all,” drawled the Kid. “I’d still get you, Pasear, if they pulled down on me.”
“I know,” Hennessey said bitterly. “I’ve been expecting you to come ever since the first poster went out, and made arrangements. But that fool on the roof has—”
“Now don’t you go blaming him. You likely told him just what to look for. Then I have to spoil things by going all sneaky and change my clothes, leave off my old Bowie knife and come up riding a sorrel instead of my old Thunder hoss. Wouldn’t want to tell those two boys to put the scatters down, now would you?”
“I think now, Cabrito. All around are my friends and at any moment one or more of them will take a hand.”
“Surely hope none of them’s plumb foolish enough to try it,” put in a quiet voice that came accompanied by the scraping of a thrust-back chair’s legs and the sinister clicking sound of cocking Colts.
Turning to see where he had gone wrong, Hennessey gave a wry grin as he learned that for once his judgment of character had been at fault. Apparently the young man the saloon-keeper pegged as an on-the-run owlhoot was nothing of the kind. Waco stood up, a Colt in either hand, their persuasive muzzles sweeping the room with relaxed, but deadly, precision. At least, Hennessey mused, the guess that the blond youngster was better than fair with his guns had been correct.
“I didn’t trust you either, Pasear,” the Kid remarked. “So it seems, Cabrito.”
“Looks like the boy’s spoiled your game. He can shoot good enough to take out both your boys.”
“But not at the same time, Cabrito. Should he kill Pedro, Cosmos will still be there to get you.”
“Only you’ll be a heap too dead to enjoy it,” the Kid pointed out.
“Possibly,” admitted Hennessey. “Although I don’t think much of your chances. One might call it a stand-off.”
“Now me,” drawled the Kid. “I’d say that all depends on which of us has the most to live for.”
Nobody in the room moved or made a sound as the two main actors of the scene weighed up their chances. Everything pointed, as Hennessey said, to a stand-off. Hennessey knew the Kid to be fearless and capable of taking the desperate risks if only a slight opportunity presented itself. Not for a moment did the Kid doubt Hennessey’s courage and willingness to grab any chance to break the deadlock. “Well?” asked Hennessey at last.
“You wouldn’t want to tell me who put out that dodger and save us all some fuss?” the Kid answered.
“No.”
“Figured you’d go and say that. Go fasten open the doors, Waco. Then get our hosses ready and cover me with your rifle.”
“Yo!” replied Waco and started moving crab-wise across the floor towards the doors. At no time did he lose his drop on the crowd.
“A cool young one, that, Cabrito,” Hennessey remarked. “He was not riding with you the last time we met.”
“Which same’s why I sent him here ahead of me. Figured you’d expect some of us to come calling once we got the word about the bounty on Dusty’s scalp.”
“And so I did. I thought the idea of the bounty foolish, but who am I to prevent a customer spending money?”
All the time he spoke, Hennessey stayed alert for any chance to break the stand-off in his favor. Yet so smoothly did Waco move, and so unwavering remained the Kid’s rifle, that any attempt to do so would be certain death. Perhaps a chance might present itself when the youngster obeyed the Kid’s order to open and fasten back the doors.
Realizing the danger, Waco holstered his left-hand Colt on reaching the door, but kept the other gun ready for instant use. He drew open the right side of the doors, held it back against the wall with his knee and swung the retaining hook into place. Still without losing the drop, he crossed and repeated the procedure at the left side of the door. Backing out of the room, he unfastened the Kid’s sorrel and turned it so it pointed away from the building. Next he led his own mount around so it stood sideways to the doors. Substituting his rifle for the Colt, he mounted fast. Before anybody in the room had time to make a hostile move, Waco sat his buckskin and lined the Winchester Centennial in the direction of the bar.
“I’ve got a right true bead on Mr. Hennessey, Lon,” he announced. “You can do what you want to do now.”
“Not going to tell me about that dodger then, Pasear?” asked the Kid, ignoring his companion for the moment.
“Not a chance,” the saloon-keeper replied, secure in the knowledge that the affair stood at a deadlock; and also that his refusal to be bluffed into disclosing confidential information had a large, appreciative audience who would spread word of it among their class, bringing him much praise and extra business.
“You’ll be sorry, you know that?”
“All things are with God, amigo.”
“My old grandpappy always told me that Ka-Dih looked after his own,” the Kid drawled. “I’m going now. Let’s have no unpleasantness while I get the hell out of here.” Slowly and carefully, never relaxing his vigilance or allowing the Winchester to sag out of line on Hennessey, the Kid began to back across the room in the direction of the doors. His insistence on having both doors fastened back showed its wisdom as he moved. At no time did he interfere with Waco’s line of fire or spoil the youngster’s ability to cover the entire room.
“You want me to shoot, Señor Hennessey?” asked the man at the serving hatch, suddenly aware that he had committed a faux pas in the matter of selecting his firing position.
“I’ll tear your heart out if you do!” Hennessy hissed back, without turning his head, for he knew he would be dead the instant his man pressed the trigger.
Then a faint gleam of hope came to Hennessey as he realized that the nearer the Kid went to the door, the more restricted became Waco’s arc of fire. Unfortunately for the saloon-keeper, the Kid had also spotted the snag in the matter of his departure and knew that going through the doors would be the most dangerous part of the business.
All the time he moved towards the doors, the Kid watched the muzzles of the two shotguns follow him. He became aware that the man at the serving hatch had committed a blunder. From where he stood, the man, Cosmos by name, could not keep the Kid under his sights much longer without exposing himself or changing his position. Being born and raised in the Rio Grande country to the east, Cosmos knew much about the Ysabel Kid’s reputation. One did not live to grow old if one took chances when dealing with el Cabrito. So Cosmos showed a marked reluctance to exposing himself in any way to the Kid. True a shotgun had great man-killing potential—but rumor had it that el Cabrito was no ordinary mortal and bore a charmed life. Cosmos did not doubt that the slightest wrong move would see him dead and the Kid escape.
Guessing at how Cosmos felt, the Kid continued to inch over towards where the man’s weapon would no longer point at him. It seemed that Ka-Dih, the Great Spirit of the Comanches, looked with favor on his quarter-bred devotee for Cosmos refused to risk taking up a more suitable position if doing so meant exposing himself, even briefly, to the deadly accurate rifle in Cabrito’s hands.
The second man, Pedro, realized what must have happened and, while sympathizing with Cosmos’ motives, continued to keep the retreating Kid under his sights. Pure luck, rather than shrewd judgment, put Pedro in a position where he could aim at the doors without being seen or in danger from retaliatory lead and so he prese
nted a serious menace to the Kid’s well-being. Watching the Kid move towards the left side of the main doors, Pedro grinned. It seemed that Cabrito was losing his old caution for Pedro had out-thought him and knew just what the dark young Tejano intended to do. When the Kid made his move, Pedro would be all set to deal with it.
Five more steps, four, three, two, one, brought the Kid to the threshold and Pedro prepared to show his brilliant grasp of the situation. Finger commencing to squeeze the shotgun’s trigger, Pedro saw the Kid make the start at leaving.
Only the Kid went to the right, not the left, hurling himself away in a move which seemed far faster after his slow, deliberate retreat. He went so swiftly that Pedro failed to react in time. True Pedro squeezed off a shot, but he had been so sure of his grasp of the situation that he failed to correct his aim. Nine buckshot balls, each .32 in caliber, slashed through the air towards where the Kid ought to have been, threw splinters from the doorjamb, but did no damage to him. Taken by surprise, Cosmos failed to fire a shot as the Kid flashed across his line of fire and was gone from sight.
Vaulting the hitching rail, the Kid raced forward and made a leap-frog mount over the rump of the fiddle-footing sorrel and started it running. At the same moment, Waco let out a wild yell and applied his petmaker spurs to the buckskin’s flanks. Already made restless by the shot, the horse sprang forward and carried the youngster out of danger from the guns at the rear of the room. Once clear of the door, Waco started to turn the horse so as to rejoin his departing amigo.
Up on the roof, the look-out had grabbed his rifle on hearing the sound of Pedro’s shot. He saw the Kid burst into view and started to raise his rifle. Just as the man started to line on the Kid, he saw Waco appear off to one side. Unsure of which rider to take first, the look-out wavered between them. He hesitated a whole heap too long when dealing with a man like the Ysabel Kid.