by J. T. Edson
‘Carron,’ the Kid growled. ‘I thought his bedroll looked a mite too heavy. Dammit all, Dusty, I should have searched him.’
Dusty did not reply—he was pacing the room. Halting at the table he looked at Gloria. ‘Like some paper and a pen, please.’
Gloria fetched them from the office and Dusty sat at the table. He took the pen in his left hand, writing with ease. After a time he looked up. ‘Mark, Lon. Can you think of anyone I’ve missed?’
The other two came and looked at the list, Dusty laid the pen down while the others looked at his neat handwriting. ‘Dallas Stoudenmire’s down to El Paso,’ Mark said at last.
Dusty reached for the pen and this time with his right hand made an addition to the list. Folding the paper he looked up at Mark. Take this to town and attend to it. Bring back enough bullets, some lead and powder and any other thing you think we might need.’
‘Will it be safe for Mark to go into town alone?’ Rene asked.
‘Reckon hell make a good try at it being,’ Dusty answered, then gave the girls a significant glance. ‘The boys are hungry, you pair of cooks.’
Gloria ignored the hint. She was intrigued as much by the list Dusty had made out as by his ambidextrous prowess. ‘What’s Mark up to?’
‘Why he figgered we’d offended that nice Mr. Lanton and went off to town to apologize to him. Likewise to get better fed than he can get out here.’
Gloria clenched her small fist and waved it under Dusty’s nose. ‘You listen to me, you short-growed, ambidextrous Rio Hondo misfit. You answer up and tell me or I’ll hand you your needings. What was on that list?’
‘Message to some friends of mine, warning them to stay away from a place where the food’s always late,’ Dusty answered. ‘And don’t you go threatening me. I’m not an Earl.’
Both Brit and Gloria looked flustered at this. The young Englishman drawled, ‘Dammit Dusty, old chap, you’ll be having me think there’s something between Gloria and myself.’
‘Well, if there isn’t now there soon will be,’ Dusty replied and ducked as Gloria hurled a bottle of ink at him. It smashed into the door of the cupboard by the fireplace. ‘All right, I’ll be good. Now, I don’t reckon they’ll hit at us for a piece. If they do Brit takes the side facing the bosque and covers it with his .44/.40. Just takes the back, I’ll handle the front and the corrals. Brazos, you being all shot up, take the other side with Gloria to help you.’
‘You’re forgetting something.’ Rene’s voice was cool. ‘What do I do. Stand in a corner and swoon?’
‘And me, although I’d surely admire to go and swoon in a corner with Rene I don’t reckon Just would approve,’ the Kid went on.
This time it was Rene and Just who looked flustered and confused. Dusty grinned. He’d forgotten the English girl. ‘You take charge of all the ammunition. Get all the spare weapons in here with you and the ammunition. Just can show you how to reload them. Then if there is a fight you stand ready to take a gun to anyone who yells for one.’
‘And me?’ the Ysabel Kid inquired mildly, guessing what was coming.
‘Time comes when Mr. Loncey Dalton Ysabel earns his pay,’ Dusty replied. ‘I want you out there.’
‘No, Dusty!’ Gloria realized what the words meant. ‘It’s too dangerous. Lon hasn’t enough shells for his rifle.’
‘I just want Lon to take a scouting look-see.’
‘Won’t even take my rifle.’
There was something in the mild way the Kid said this which made Dusty look at his Indian dark friend. The Kid was looking at the display of Comanche war weapons on the wall with a casual, disinterested gaze. Gloria was satisfied. She knew the Kid’s reputation as a rifleman and was sure his leaving the rifle behind would keep his mission peaceful. She did not think the Syndicate men could get close enough to the Ysabel Kid to give him the need of a rifle. Without the old yellow boy under his leg the Kid would behave himself, or so she thought.
‘All right, come on Rene, let’s feed the starving brutes.’
‘This mouth’d be nice,’ Dusty answered drily. ‘You hands best get started on getting the place ready for a fight.’
The Ysabel Kid and Dusty were left alone in the room. They did not speak for a moment, then Dusty said: ‘Be careful, boy.’
‘Allus am, aren’t I?’
‘Nope. Where’re you headed?’
‘Santone’s. If Carron went there he’ll have told how we are for shells and they’ll be the first to come for us. I just aim to hawg-tie them a mite.’
‘Best take a rifle then,’ Dusty watched the Indian dark face and knew all hell was going to be let loose on the range soon.
‘Be dark afore I get there,’ the Kid went to the wall and took down the short, immensely powerful bow. It was not strung and he tested the curve, feeling the wood had lost none of its spring and strength. The lack of a string did not worry him, he always carried a length of deer sinew which could be improvised for the purpose of making a bowstring. Then he took the arrows from the quiver. There were five of them, still as bright and true as when first taken and feathered. The points were like needles and the blades almost as sharp as his bowie knife. Slinging the quiver over his shoulder he took the bow down and was about to turn when he looked up at the lance. Deep inside him the Comanche blood stirred. The lance was the weapon of the chosen, the Dog Soldier lodge. His grandfather, Chief Long Walker was a Dog Soldier and in the Kid’s veins flowed that same blood. He lifted down the lance. Like the arrows the heavy blade was needle pointed and razor sharp.
‘What you fixing in to do?’ Dusty inquired.
‘I took me a lodge oath to put Santone and Carron under,’ the Kid replied, his voice almost mild. ‘You wouldn’t have a man go back on that, now would you?’ He glanced at the door. ‘Go make sure Gloria isn’t around.’
In the kitchen the two girls were working side by side, preparing a meal for the men folk. Gloria was looking down at the biscuit mix she was working on when she spoke, ‘Rene?’
Deep in thoughts about soft talking, gentle and handsome young men with tragic eyes, Rene looked around. ‘Yes, dear?’
‘What do you call an Earl’s wife.’
Mark Counter rode into Azul Rio town ready for trouble and hoping for it. He headed straight for the hardware store, swinging down from the bloodbay and entering. The owner and his wife were alone inside and both looked brighter at the prospect of a customer. ‘Help you, sir?’ the man asked, coming forward.
‘Why sure. I want six boxes of .45 Colt bullets. Four Winchester .44 rimfire, one of the new .44/.40 if you have it. Box of .52./.56 Spencer, some soft lead and a couple of pounds of Du Pont powder.’
The man stared at Mark, his smile dying off as the list got longer.
He glanced at his wife for advice, who nodded, and he went along the shelves collecting the required order. The storekeeper was well aware of what was happening in Azul Rio Basin. Word was going around the town of the deaths of Knight and Hamilton. Also the storekeeper had been in the crowd at Henery’s and seen this tall Texas man standing over Speedy Slinger’s body. If the Texan rode for KH, Lanton was not going to like his being able to buy ammunition. The Texan was likely not to like not being able to buy it and his dislike was liable to be fast and decisive. Not even the sheriff or the three deputies would be a match for the young man.
Mark could guess what the man was thinking and grinned without much sympathy. The man was in an awkward position as a neutral in the war which was forthcoming. He did not want to cross either side and yet must in the end cross one or both.
The bundle was made up for Mark, who wanted it all in one pile for easier handling. There was quite a large bundle when the man finished and he had to use both hands to heft it. Mark gripped the heavy package in his left hand, paid for his purchases and walked out of the store leaving the man and his wife looking pleased at the sale but also worried in case Lanton heard.
Mark lashed the heavy package to the cantle of his saddle and
swung astride without looking down the street. He rode to the telegraph office and left the horse standing at the rail without fastening it. He opened the door and walked in, the old operator glancing up at him, then looking back at the paper he was reading.
Leaning on the counter for a moment Mark looked down at the man. He was a leathery, tanned old timer with hard eyes. Slowly he looked up from under his eye shield, took in every detail of Mark’s dress and armament.
‘You know Jack Knight, friend?’ Mark inquired.
‘Might or might not,’ the old eyes came up and met Mark’s. ‘Who is it inquires?’
‘Me.’
‘Jack Knight hailed from Texas.’ It was a statement, not a question. The old-timer knew the range and knew cowhands. He had not been to Henery’s after the shooting, but Henery had come across here and told him much.
‘So do I. Pappy owns the R over C in the Big Bend country.’
The suspicion died from the old-timer’s eyes and he held out his hand. Mark knew he’d called it right. The old-timer was an old friend of the KH and would help them out in their hour of need. He would send these messages for Dusty and keep his mouth shut about them.
Getting up, the old man held out his hand, his face friendly. ‘I heard about Jack and Mike. Bad business. How’d it happen?’
‘They bushwhacked us, out there on the range. We didn’t have a chance to get back at them.’
‘Know who did it?’
‘Near enough.’
‘I’ll start getting me mourning clothes out then. Don’t reckon you come in here just to make some small talk.’
Mark shook his head, taking out the list and reaching for the pad of telegraph message forms. He wrote on the first form and handed it to the old-timer, who took out his spectacles.
‘Dallas Stoudenmire, City Marshal’s office, El Paso, Texas—’ he read aloud, then stopped, his eyes bulging out. They came out still more when he saw the other forms Mark wrote out. He sent each one off, screwing the form up and tossing it on to the fire as soon as he’d sent off the message.
Mark was aware that this was against the regulations of the telegraph department. He also knew the old man would not pass on what the KH were doing to Lanton. He grinned and winked at Mark. He was supposed to take any message that might interest the Syndicate’s boss to the sheriff’s office, but did not intend to mention these to anyone.
After paying for the messages Mark stepped out on to the sidewalk and for the first time looked down towards the saloon. Prudence would decree a rapid departure from what might be a dangerous and unfriendly area, but Mark Counter was rarely a prudent young man. There was nothing he would welcome more than a round with the Syndicate men, up to and including the sheriff and his three deputies.
Three horses stood before the saloon hitching rail. Only three. A paint, a black and a claybank. Mark swung up into his saddle, looking again but hardly believing what he was seeing.
‘It can’t be,’ he said, as he started the horse forward. ‘It just can’t be. But it is.’ Riding alongside the three horses he looked down, at the brand on the paint, it was CA. The black carried the Wedge brand. Mark did not bother looking at the claybank. He swung down and fastened his big bloodbay stallion next to the paint. The horse snorted and twisted its head round towards the paint, ears laid back. Then it snorted and settled down again, standing quietly.
Mark stepped on to the porch and looked inside the saloon. There was a mischievous grin on his lips as he watched the three tall young men playing poker dice at the bar. Stepping to the batwings he yelled, ‘Draw!’
The one word brought a sudden and instant change to the peaceful scene. The bar dog went out of sight behind the bar faster than a prairie dog going into its hole. The other three came round fast, hands dropping hipwards as they fanned out. The slender, pallid young man in the coat went to the right, his ivory handled Colt Civilian Peacemaker coming out ahead of the other two’s guns. The tall, handsome blond just turned, his hand dipping and bringing up the matched, staghorn butted Colt Artillery Peacemakers out and lining on the door. The redhead went to the left, his hand making a cavalry twist to lift the walnut gripped Colt Cavalry Peacemakers from where they’d laid, butt forward, in his holsters.
They were around, facing Mark and with guns drawn ready for action in just over a second after his shout.
‘Mark,’ the handsome boy yelled, his guns making a flashing spin and ending back in his holsters again. ‘Yowee, it’s Mark. Where’s Dusty ’n’ Lon?’
Mark crossed the room, hand held out to greet the other three members of Ole Devil’s floating outfit. Red Blaze, Dusty’s cousin and one-time second-in-command of the Texas Light Cavalry, was almost as tall as Mark. He was wide shouldered, slim of waist and his face was freckled, and handsome in a pugnacious way. His clothes were, like both the others, range style. Around his throat knotted the violently hued bandanna Ole Devil gave to him to celebrate his first lone hand chore for the floating outfit.
Doc Leroy was not quite as tall, slender, pallid skinned and looked studious. His name came from the fact that he’d taken some medical training when younger. Now he was known to be able to deliver a baby or set a bone with equal ease and handle anything from taking out a bullet to removing an appendix with the aid of a bowie knife. Doc invariably wore a coat, the right side of which was stitched back to leave clear the butt of his gun.
The last of the trio, Waco, was almost as tall as Mark, wide shouldered, blond and handsome. He looked young, yet his face showed strength, intelligence and self-reliance. His range clothes were clean and neat and around his waist was a Joe Gaylin gunbelt. That told a man who knew the West much about this Texas boy, whose only name was Waco.
Gaylin was an El Paso leatherworker with a reputation which covered the west. He would sell the saddles and boots to any man who could meet his high prices. His gunbelts were something else again. He only made and sold them to men whom he chose as being worthy of the honor. Throughout the west there were probably not more than twenty men who owned such a belt. Dusty and Mark each owned one and those masterpieces of the leatherworker’s art gave them that split second of speed so vital. Waco was proud of that Gaylin belt, more proud than of any other thing he owned with the exception of the matched Colts in the holsters. These were a present from the other members of the floating outfit and Waco treasured them.
‘Where’s Dusty?’ he asked again.
Mark grinned. Waco might think of them all as older brothers but it was Dusty who held first claim on the youngster’s loyalty. In Waco’s eyes Dusty Fog was omnipotent and could do no wrong. Any man who spoke disparagingly of Dusty in Waco’s presence was called on to defend himself with fists or guns.
‘Out to KH. What are you bunch doing here?’
‘Took a herd over to the San Carlos Apache reservation to sell to the Army,’ Red explained. ‘We figgered you bunch would be done about now and coming back through here, so we pulled in. If you’d rid on we aimed to try and catch up with you. If you hadn’t come in we were going to wait for you for a few days.’
‘I surely never thought I’d be pleased to see you three hellers.’
‘We affects folks that way, don’t we, Doc?’ Waco whooped, then leaned across and looked down behind the bar. ‘If you all finished playing at gophers, colonel, we’d surely admire to take us another glass of beer.’
The bar dog came up, his face sprinkled with sawdust where he’d shoved it down in an attempt to avoid the bullets which should have been flying. Looking at the grinning faces he growled, ‘Danged cow nurses. Like to scare a man to death with all that fooling.’
‘Afore you up and die, lay out four small beers and take something for yourself, friend,’ Mark replied. ‘We’ll have the one, then ride.’
‘Sounds like trouble,’ Red remarked hopefully.
‘Hold hard afore you says a thing, friend. I’ve got to live here, likewise I was at Henery’s this morning,’ the bar dog interrupted, pouring out the beer
s and a whiskey for himself, then taking the payment Mark offered. ‘I mind you and figger what you say to them’d interest Lanton, that being the case I don’t aim to hear it. I scare easy and they might want to know what you was saying.’
He winked broadly, raised his glass in a salute, took a sip and went to the other end of the bar to start and polish the glasses with a rag that had seen far better days.
Three faces turned to Mark. Red Blaze was bubbling with eagerness at the prospect of a fight. Waco showed his delight at this opportunity to see some action alongside his hero. Doc Leroy, being slightly older than the other two, was more sober about the business. Mark told quickly what happened to them since their arrival the previous day.
‘Sounds like you need us here,’ Doc remarked as he finished his drink.
‘I’d have surely liked to see Dusty knock that fat hombre down and shoot the gun out of his hand,’ Waco went on. ‘Can’t ole Dusty call his shots?’
Outside the saloon Red glanced at the package behind Mark’s cantle and brightened up when told it contained ammunition. ‘You got any Spencer hulls there?’
‘A box,’ Mark replied, warily.
‘Good. I’ve near on run out and—’
‘The store’s across that way,’ Mark finished.
‘Why, so it is,’ Red eyed the building as if thinking someone built it there to spite him. ‘Well what do you know about that?’
‘You broke as usual?’
‘How’d you guess?’ It was a rare thing when Red managed to make his pay last him any length of time.
With a sigh Mark dug some money and passed it to Red. ‘Go get another box. The way you throw lead from the rusted up relic you’ll need it out there.’
Night was falling as they rode out of town. They exchanged gossip until they reached the rim which overlooked the Azul Rio basin. Then Waco pointed to the
north. ‘Ain’t that a fire there?’
The others looked. In the distance they could see a red