by J. T. Edson
The blond youngster moved his big paint to flank his friends and spoke for the first time:
‘Ma’am, I reckon folks just might listen. This here’s Dusty Fog.’
‘Dusty Fog?’ Ellwood breathed the two words out, staring at the small Texan and half suspecting a joke. ‘I’ve heard of you.’
On the wagon Phyllis nudged Thornett in the ribs and smiled. Her guess was a meat-in-the-pot hit. She’d hardly recognised Dusty, for the last time she saw him was in Gratton, Texas. Then Dusty was wearing town clothes and acting as a school-teacher to help break a ruthless town-boss. The range clothes prevented Phyllis from recognising Dusty before. She knew he recognised her by the smile he gave her before looking back at Ellwood.
The crowd knew the name. Every man here had heard of the Rio Hondo gun-wizard, Dusty Fog. His was a name to conjure with throughout the West. Dusty Fog, a small man who stood head and shoulders over the tall men he rode with. A Confederate Army captain at seventeen, Dusty built a reputation which equalled the Dixie masters, John Singleton Mosby and Turner Ashby. Since the war he’d become known as trailhand of the first water, cowhand, rough-string rider and trail boss. He was the man who brought law to the rough towns where other men failed. That was Dusty Fog, segundo of the mighty O.D. Connected ranch, nephew of the owner, Ole Devil Hardin.
He was the leader of the elite of the O.D. Connected ranch crew, Ole Devil’s floating outfit. Three members of the floating outfit rode with him now.
It didn’t take a whole lot of brain power to guess who the three men were.
The blond giant was Mark Counter. He was a cowhand with a name as high as any man’s. His father owned the biggest ranch in the Big Bend country but Mark rode as a hand with his friends. In Bushrod Sheldon’s Confederate Cavalry, Mark was known as the man who set the fashion in uniforms. Now he was the Beau Brummel of the cow fighting men in the West. His skill with his fists was told of along the cattle trails: he was known to be a good rifle shot. For all of that there were few who knew of his skill with his matched guns. Those who knew said Mark Counter was second only to Dusty Fog himself in speed of draw and skill at placing home his shots.
The dark boy on the big white horse was also known—and how he was known. The Ysabel Kid was known as a rifle shot who could make a hit any time a hit was possible and frequently made a hit when a hit was impossible. He was said to be the greatest exponent of the art of cut and slash since James Bowie died at the Alamo. He was also fair with his old Dragoon gun, proving that Colonel Sam’s old four-pound heavyweight was a precision weapon in skilled hands. He was spoken of as a man skilled in the noble art of reading sign. His tenor voice was much sought after by quartet singers. He could speak fluent Spanish and was conversant with six Indian tongues. His father had been an Irish Kentuckian and his mother a French Creole Comanche woman. From this mixture of bloods came a soft-talking, innocent-looking but deadly dangerous child christened Loncey Dalton Ysabel, but was better known as the Ysabel Kid.
The last member of the quartet, the handsome boy on the big paint, was known by only one name, Waco. He’d been left an orphan almost from birth by a Waco Indian attack, and from the age of thirteen was riding the cattle ranges with a low-tied gun by his side. He’d grown fast, sullen, truculent and trouble-hunting. A man who rode for Clay Allison was likely to be a real good man with a gun, and Waco was no exception to the rule. He’d ridden for the old Washita curly wolf’s C.A. outfit, and with them Waco learned to handle a brace of low-tied guns. Then he met Dusty Fog and his life changed. From the day when Dusty Fog pulled Waco from in front of the stampeding C.A. herd, the youngster started to change. He’d left Allison and joined the O.D. Connected’s floating outfit, changing from a proddy, trouble-hunting heller to a likeable, friendly and efficient young man. He was now known as an expert cowhand, liked and respected. To the other members of the floating outfit he gave a loyalty, brotherly respect and accepted all they could teach him. To Dusty Fog, Waco gave the devotion and hero-worship which should have gone to his father. To speak with disrespect about the Rio Hondo gun-wizard in Waco’s presence was to invite a fight and to get one.
Phyllis watched the faces of the crowd, then turned to Dusty Fog and smiled. The recognition was mutual. Dusty knew who she was and remembered her from their last meeting. She gave the crowd a withering glance and said:
‘We’re going, Captain Fog. We wouldn’t stay here if they begged us.’
For all her apparent calm Phyllis was worried. She’d helped fight off two Indian attacks but only against Pawnees or Utes, low down on the dangerous Indian scale. The Apaches were right up there on top of that scale, one of the most savage, ruthless, battle-wise and deadly of all the fighting, Indian tribes. For all that, even should the Apaches be waiting a mile from town, should the death of herself and her family be certain, Phyllis did not aim to stay in Baptist’s Hollow. The very people of the town sickened her.
‘That’s right,’ Mrs. Haslett let out a squeal She was disappointed that Phyllis was not begging to be allowed to stay. ‘Get out of here and take your four hired killers with you.’
Dusty Fog stopped Waco’s angry retort and looked hard at Ellwood. ‘You know these ladies could get killed, or worse, taken by the Apaches?’
‘We’ve never had any Apache trouble,’ answered Ellwood, worried far more than he was showing. ‘Chief Ramon’s a friend of our town and attends our church. He would never allow his men to attack us.’
‘You sure of that?’ asked the Ysabel Kid, leaning forward slightly and looking attentive. ‘I mean, about him being such a good friend?’
‘He’s our friend.’
‘Mister, you got a real dead friend,’ the Kid’s drawl was Comanche, deep and mean. ‘A fortnight back a troop of Yankee cavalry hit his camp by mistake. They went right straight through and left poor ole Ramon dead as a six-day stunk-up skunk. Now a real bad hat, white-hater called Lobo Colorado’s riding as war chief and he don’t like white-eyes one lil bit.’
Ellwood stiffened and stared at the Ysabel Kid. The marshal knew something about Ramon’s braves and more than somewhat about the one called Lobo Colorado. The Ysabel kid only half called it when he said Lobo Colorado was a white-hater. The Indian hated every white-skinned man, woman and child, hated them bitterly for taking away his land. With him riding as war chief it was going to mean bad trouble for the white people of Arizona. Ellwood turned to the wagon and spoke in a grudging tone:
‘You can stay on here until we hear something definite. But you’ve got to behave and you don’t try to give your show.’
‘Thanks for nothing,’ snapped Phyllis, taking a chance on what she knew of the four Texans. ‘I wouldn’t stay in your town if I knew my girls were all going to be taken alive by the Apaches. I’d prefer them to you. Come on, Doc, start the wagon.’
‘You got company, happen you don’t mind, ma’am,’ said Mark Counter, making the remark Phyllis guessed he would.
‘Be pleased to have you along,’ Phyllis replied, trying to hide her relief. With those four along they stood a better than fair chance of getting through to Fort Owen. She looked back into the wagon where Elwin was seated and talking to her daughter. ‘You hear what was said, boy?’
Elwin gave a startled jump and turned to the woman. ‘Yes’m,’ he lied, for he’d been so engrossed talking to Janice that he had not heard a word.
‘Do you want to stay here instead of risking the fort?’
‘No, ma’am!’ replied Elwin in a determined voice. What Janice just told him would have made him willing to face the devil. ‘I’ll take my chance along with you.’
‘Right, come on up front here while Janice changes out of that torn dress.’
Ellwood was doing some right smart, fast thinking now. If Ramon was dead and Lobo Colorado rode as war chief a man could do worse than have four men like these fighting alongside him. In the war Ellwood learned the lesson of what a few good fighting men could do for an otherwise weak command. He knew the figh
ting qualities of his people, or the lack of fighting qualities. The four Texans might stiffen the citizens, give them hope if not courage. He made a decision which might make him unpopular with the people of the town.
‘You can stay on here if you like.’
‘Not us, mister,’ replied Mark. ‘We wouldn’t pollute your fair city no more. We’ll let Fort Owen know how you’re getting on.’
Thornett started the wagon rolling along Church Street, headed for the stage trail. Three of the four Texans moved their horses to one side, then followed the wagon, but the fourth remained. The Ysabel Kid sat his big white, his face dark and Comanche-looking, his red-hazel coloured eyes mocking and hard. For a full minute he did not speak, then he gave forth with some of his inborn Indian savvy.
‘Mister, happen you’ve got the sense of a seam-squirrel, you’ll sleep real easy tonight and every other night until Lobo Colorado’s put under— You being such a good friend of Ole Ramon, that is.’
Ellwood hated the mocking note in the voice and at any other time would have reacted differently. Right now there was too much he wanted to know about Apaches, and there was not much time to learn it. Holding down his annoyance he asked:
‘What do you mean?’
‘Man’d say I know a mite about Apaches, just a lil mite,’ the mocking note was still there, biting and savage. ‘They think real funny, Apaches do. Right now, and ever since the blue-bellies put Ramon under, ole Lobo Colorado’s been sending out the word for every bronco bad-hat to meet up with him and see how little he cares for Ramon’s ways and—’ There was a pause, pregnant with the thought for the listening crowd. ‘Ramon’s friends.’
Ellwood was beginning to catch the drift of Ysabel’s remarks and did not like what he read in them. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Waal, a smart ole Yankee major like you ought to be able to figure it out real good, if a half-bright lil Texas boy like me can,’ drawled the Kid, confirming Ellwood’s suspicions. ‘Yeah, he’ll be here one of these dawns. Him and every white-hating buck who ride hoss, or tote gun. They’ll be all here, wild and r’aring to show how much they hate Ramon and his amigos. Mister, one morning, real early, you’re going to find yourself plump belly deep in Apaches. Good luck, you’ll likely wind up needing it.’
With that the Ysabel Kid began to knee his big white horse around to follow his friends. Before the horse took two walking steps, Ellwood called out, ‘Hold it there, young man.’
In all the West, as Ellwood knew from what he’d heard, there were probably not more than two men who owned sufficient knowledge to outweigh the Ysabel Kid’s ‘lil mite’ of Indian savvy. Anything the Kid might feel like telling right now was going to be of great help to the town in preparing for the forthcoming Indian attack.
‘Something bothering you, mister?’ asked the Kid, turning his horse once more and bringing it to a halt.
‘What’d you say was the best thing we could do?’
The Ysabel Kid looked first at the Apache war arrow which still stuck in the dirt of the street. Then slowly his eyes lifted to the scared faces of the crowd. There was quite a change in the faces now. The truculent, righteous looks were all gone, the hatred and anger faded. Only raw fear remained. The Kid looked at the people of Baptist’s Hollow and his face showed what he thought of them.
‘Ain’t but three things you could do now. Run. But there isn’t time, travelling slow like you’d be. They’d get you out in their own country—it wouldn’t be pretty. You could stock that ole church there with food, powder, ball and everything. Even so, with a bunch like this to back you I wouldn’t like your chances,’ the Kid replied, starting to turn his horse again. ‘Way I see it, we’re lucky to be getting out of here.’
‘You said three things we could do, cowboy,’ said Ellwood in a hoarse voice. Suddenly he saw himself and his town the way this cowhand and every other person must see it. The feeling hurt, for he saw himself as a fool, a stupid, bigoted fool. Not only he himself, but almost every man and woman in the town. Now, unless they were lucky they would all wind up being dead fools. ‘You said three things we could do,’ he repeated. ‘What was the last thing?’
The big stallion was walking away and the Ysabel Kid did not stop it. He turned in the saddle and looked back, then replied:
‘Mister, your bunch are so strong for religion and doing everything right—You might try and pray.’
CHAPTER FOUR
MAJOR ELLWOOD MAKES READY
Major Ellwood, town marshal of Baptist’s Hollow, watched the wagon leaving his town, the four young Texas men riding behind it. He watched the four men’s departure with some misgivings. If the Apaches did attack he could have used such men to back him and help in the defence of the town. They would have been just what he needed, for fighting men were desperately short in Baptist’s Hollow and there were none in whom Ellwood could put his trust. Certainly not men like Haslett, Millet or the town’s minister, Deacon Routh. None of them could be termed a fighting man.
The men of Baptist’s Hollow stood in a group, talking among themselves about what they’d heard. Ellwood watched their faces, reading the fear in most of them. Millet was in the centre of things as usual. He was a flabby fat man with a mean, piggy face which worked into folds and lines as he stressed some point. By Millet’s side stood Haslett, his thin, sallow face paler than was usual as he tried to peer through the store window and see what Elwin stole when he left. Yet the thin man was so scared of missing anything that not even his mistrust of others and love of money could make him leave the street. Deacon Routh, the minister, was also there, his thin, miserable face strained and scared as he tried to think up a suitable Bible quotation to cover the situation.
‘What’re we going to do, Major?’ Haslett asked.
There Ellwood was stumped for a moment. He did not know right off just what they were going to do. Ellwood was the sort of man who needed time to think, he did not have the quick brain, the lightning speed of adaptability, which went to make a great lawman or soldier. Given a plan ready-made he could carry it out so long as it went as planned. He lacked the ability to improvise on the spot when things went wrong. His eyes went to the old Spanish church across the plaza and he remembered the Ysabel Kid’s advice. There was everything to be said for their going into the church, for he knew how ideal it was for defence and protection. It would take artillery and a regiment of skilled men to break into their church if the defenders held firm. With the church supplied with food, ammunition and the necessities of life, it could be held indefinitely by determined men. Long before the Apaches could break through the defence relief would be on hand from Fort Owen. The Texans would take word to the fort, that was certain, and the cavalry could come fast.
‘We’d best do what that young feller told us, fort up the church.’
‘I think we should assemble the Town Council and talk things out first,’ replied Deacon Routh. He was a shrewd judge of character and knew exactly what Haslett meant. While the good deacon did not object to any man making a profit, he did not want the same profit made at his expense.
Ellwood snorted. At this moment there was nothing he wanted less than a meeting with the Town Council, which consisted of himself, Routh, Millet and Haslett. The purpose this council served, as Ellwood was bitterly aware, was to make sure that things ran smoothly for the members. There was no way he could avoid the meeting, so he gave his assent and turned to walk off in the direction of the jail. Millet bent to pull the Apache war arrow from the ground, then followed the other members of the council along the sidewalk.
The Town Offices of Baptist’s Hollow were neither large, nor grand. They were in fact half the jail house, the other half being the steel barred cells. So little business was ever done in the office that the prisoners, if any were in the cells, could look in on any meeting. The offices themselves were nothing more than a filing cabinet in one corner and a small desk.
The two prisoners looked up as the double doors opened.
Sc
ully was clearly on his dignity as became a man who’d been jailed in most of the big towns of the West. ‘I say, my good man,’ he greeted, as Ellwood came in. ‘When do we eat in this pokey?’
Ellwood ignored the man and waved the council inside. Haslett was quick at counting and saw there would not be sufficient chairs to go around, so he made a dash for one, beating Routh to it by a short head. Millet laid the arrow on the desk and showed his annoyance at failing to get a seat. The arrow was an interesting object, and he might be able to sell it in his store. Then he opened the meeting with a statement worthy of his mighty brain.
‘I don’t think there is any Apache trouble at all. Those four brought this with them and used it as an excuse to get the show out of town.’
‘Why’d they bother?’ asked Ellwood, wondering how the man ever reached such a conclusion.
‘They were working in with the man who ran the show. You know what those hired killers are.’
Ellwood snorted, wondering where Millet kept his brains. ‘Why’d they need to lie about it. If they’d wanted to take the show out of town we couldn’t have stopped them doing it.’
Millet puffed up pompously. ‘I wouldn’t say that, Major. I’m no man to cross when I’m roused.’
Deacon Routh looked at the Apache arrow, then at the rifles which were secured to the wall by a chain through their trigger-guards and locked firmly. ‘Gentlemen, let us assume the warning was correct, what will be our best plan?’
‘We do have our duty to the citizens to consider,’ agreed Haslett, ‘but I can’t see why those men would bother to warn us.’
‘It could have been out of Christian charity,’ answered Ellwood in a low tone.
The marshal was thinking of the layout of the town now and saw a possible way of defending it. He knew little about Apache’s first-hand, his knowledge coming from people he’d heard talking. The Apaches were horse-Indians, fighting from the backs of’ their racing war-ponies. That was one thing he was almost sure about. They were horsemen with few equals, and yet not even Apaches could ride down the slopes on three sides of the town. That meant they would come in from the open end, following the trail. There was enough room on either side of the trail for a large body of men to make a combined attack. That would be the way Lobo Colorado came, the obvious way. Any half-bright shavetail out of West Point would see that in half a glance. The Apaches would strike at dawn, coming in as the first light of day came, for that was the way they fought. Ellwood knew that much and thought back to his lessons at West Point and started to make a plan. He thought he would have little trouble in dealing with a bunch of savages, without his military training. What Ellwood was forgetting was that the Apache fought against many men with far better military training—and with some success.