by J. T. Edson
Give Lobo Colorado his due. He’d fought his men like a warrior and a brave leader. He’d led them and taken his share of the risks and now he was beaten. Give him a warrior’s death, not have him murdered by that foul machine which cut down all in its path.
Three times Dusty shot, the bullets struck home, rocking the Apache chief from his racing horse. Down to the bloody dirt of the plaza fell Lobo Colorado, rolled over once and lay still.
Cheers were ringing out from the walls. Women came running from the church, and every voice lifted in the praise of the man who saved them, who led them and who came out victorious in the end.
Suddenly, Dusty felt sickened by the whole business. His face was hard as he turned to the Kid and said, ‘Go put Lobo Colorado on a horse. Take him out into the hills and give him his warrior’s due.’
The Kid nodded, letting out his breath in a long sigh. This was the end of the Indian’s way of life. His way of fighting could not stand up to a weapon such as the Gatling gun. Without a word he turned and went to where his white stallion stood, vaulted afork it and rode from the church grounds as eager hands dragged the wagon to one side.
Mark Counter and Dusty Fog looked at each other. The big Texan was soaked with sweat, and it was not all caused by the exertion of working the gun. Mark’s face was pale and haggard under the dirt and two-day growth of whiskers. He looked at the Gatling gun in disgust.
‘Damn it to hell, Dusty,’ he said. ‘I’ll never feel clean again.’
‘I know how you feel,’ replied Dusty. ‘Throw a tarp over that damned gun. I never want to see one again.’
Dusty swung down from the wagon and gripped Ellwood’s hand. The big major watched the small Texan’s face and knew something. No matter how a man looked at it. No matter that he probably never went into a church or offered a formal prayer, one thing was for sure. Captain Fog was a deeply religious man, and he hated what he’d just been forced to do.
Dusty watched the eager crowd swarming forward to congratulate him. Then he turned and looked at the burning town. The battle was over. The work of rebuilding would have to begin.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MADAM FIONA RETIRES
‘You did a fine piece of work, Captain Fog,’ the colonel commanding Fort Owen said, looking at the small Texan who sat facing him across the desk. ‘I wish there was some way the country could regard you. I’m promoting Bronson to sergeant-major and hope to promote Magoon as soon as possible. But it was you who made the defence possible and it is you who deserves—’
‘I don’t know how you get that idea, Colonel,’ Dusty replied. ‘Magoon and Chet Bronson were responsible for the defence. I’m only a civilian, Colonel. I can’t give orders to soldiers.’
The colonel smiled. He knew this small Texan could walk out of the office and take command of nearly the whole of the 8th Cavalry if he felt like it. The men were talking of nothing other than Captain Dusty Fog, unless it, was the fist-fight which was arranged to take place at the sutler’s store that night.
‘I’ll pass that over. I know Magoon, he’s braver than any lion but he hasn’t the sense of leadership which made what you did possible.’
Dusty moved uncomfortably in his chair. ‘You said something about promoting Chet Bronson? I thought—’
‘Lieutenant Torrance thought he was going to die of the fever and decided to clear his conscience. He talked to the surgeon-major who saw that General Crook got to know. Crook sent a rider with the order for Bronson’s release and reinstatement with rank, the court-martial to be struck from his record. I thought all along there was more than met the eye to that business at Ramon’s village, but the way the evidence was I couldn’t do a thing.’
‘I’m pleased for Chet’s sake,’ drawled Dusty. ‘Wondered why he wasn’t taken to the Stockade.’
‘I’m also trying to get Harris’s court-martial struck from his record and an award for his bravery,’ the colonel went on. ‘It’s you I feel sorry for. There’s nothing to show for what you did. Major Ellwood wrote a letter telling me everything but there’s nothing I can do for you. President Grant has telegraphed and told me that the offer he made you at Moshogen still holds good.’
‘Thanks, but I’m a cowhand. And if I don’t get on with what brought me out here I’m going to be an out-of-work cowhand. I’ll be riding on tomorrow.’
It was nearly three weeks since the fight at Baptist’s Hollow. They’d been three hard-working weeks for Dusty. He stayed on in the town, organising the burial parties, cleaning up details and rationing the food out until the Army arrived with supplies. His work was showing results, the town showing signs of being rebuilt, but it would be a cleaner, happy place. The ring-leaders of the old Baptist’s Hollow were no longer there. Haslett, Millet and the good Deacon Routh were not of the kind to rebuild a shattered life and start again. They’d left the town and headed east. Major Ellwood was still there, still town marshal, still mayor, but a wiser, happier and more tolerant man. Doc Thornett’s show was given and proved a roaring success, not the least of which was Elwin, the Wonder Juggler.
Now at last it was over. The Gatling gun, brought out to Fort Owen in secret, to show the Apaches at a meeting, proved its worth in a savage and murderous manner. It proved to the Apaches once and for all time the futility of fighting the white man. It was now attached to the 8th Cavalry for use, and stood on its tripod mount by the gate of the fort, a bitter reminder to the beaten Apaches that their dream was over and done.
‘I’m holding a ball for all officers and their wives tonight, Captain,’ the colonel remarked. ‘I’d like you and your three friends to be my guests.’
‘We’d like that, Colonel,’ answered Dusty. ‘If we can come in later. We’ve a previous engagement that might take some time.’
‘It wouldn’t be to do with that fist fight Magoon and Tolitski arranged?’
‘Hear tell that some of the officers’ ladies don’t cotton any to the idea of the fight,’ Dusty replied. ‘Fact being, there was some talk of their trying to make you stop it. So I’m not answering that.’ He paused and smiled, ‘It looks like that ball was arranged a mite sudden.’
The smile was answered by a brief flicker across the colonel’s grim face. ‘It was arranged as soon as I heard the date of the fight. And it was my wife’s idea, not mine. Do you think Madam Fiona will win?’
“Why sure,’ replied Dusty, thinking of the secret training sessions Mark Counter had been giving Phyllis ever since the fighting at Baptist’s Hollow ended.
‘I’ve got ten dollars right here that says she doesn’t.’
‘I’ll cover it, Colonel.’
The post sutler’s store was crowded out, the troopers who could not get admission crowding outside and being given profane but exacting descriptions of what was going on within.
In the ring erected at the centre of the room was being fought as hard and rough a fight as any of them were ever likely to see. For twenty-eight gruelling and hard fought rounds Phyllis and Big Em battled for the title of Female Pugilistic Champion of the World. The watching crowd were almost hoarse with their cheering, and all knew it would not be long before the fight was over, although the result was still far from certain.
One thing Phyllis knew, as she fought the long, hard rounds. She was getting too old for this kind of thing.’ Big Em was not a good fighter, just a wild swinger with the power of a mule-kick when she landed. A few years back Phyllis would have made mincemeat of the big woman. Right now Phyllis could hardly stand. Those wild swung punches took a lot of handling. It was only the training Mark managed to give Phyllis that saved her. She’d learned just enough to be able to avoid or ride the worst of the other woman’s blows in the early rounds.
Phyllis staggered forward and swung a punch at the tottering Big Em. They both sank to their knees, resting their hands on the floor of the ring and not able to even hold their heads up. It was only Mark’s training and the more expert seconding of Doc and Molly which got Phyllis this far. Now it looked as if s
he was finished and would not be able to toe the line for the next round. Thornett had one consolation. Big Em didn’t look in any better shape to come out when time was called.
Mark Counter stood in Phyllis’s corner as Thornett and Molly helped her back and sat her on the small stool. He watched them working on her and was unable to offer any advice which might help.
‘It’s no good, Mark,’ Thornett said grimly as he wiped the blood from Phyllis’s face. ‘I’m not going to let her take any more punishment. We’ll concede defeat.’
Phyllis’s eyes fluttered open, and she stared at Thornett through the puffed, swollen lids. Her bruised lips tried to say something, but failed.
‘You’ll lose about everything you’ve got, Doc,’ Mark drawled, for he knew how much Thornett was wagering on the fight.
‘Better that than have Phyllis hurt any more,’ Thornett replied. ‘We’ll still have the wagon and the acts. Being broke is something we’ve faced before. I ought to have put my foot down earlier and would have if we’d been married. Then, she won’t marry a worn out old fake like me.’
‘Don’t you bet on that, Doc. I talked with her some, while I was helping her train for the fight. She’d marry you any time you want, would have years back but she always thought she wasn’t good enough for you.’
Thornett stared at Mark. All these long years, the one thing Thornett had hoped for was that Phyllis might agree to marry him. Yet he’d never worked up the courage to ask. He saw Phyllis looking up at him and gulped, for once his glib tongue stilled. Then he made his decision and spoke like a man:
‘Phyllis, me dove, I’ll marry you as soon as can possibly be arranged. We’ve a lot of time to catch up on.’
Time was called at that moment, and Thornett opened his mouth to say that the champion would not make the line. Phyllis pushed herself to her feet and moved forward. Somehow she looked revived and her hands were held as Mark showed her when she went to the ring centre to toe the line.
The pride of Fort Owen staggered out. Big Em could barely stand, she was a bloody, battered hulk now for she’d learned a bitter lesson that sheer muscle could not match skill. For all that she was game and swung a wild haymaker which would have knocked Phyllis over the ropes had it landed.
Phyllis blocked the swinging blow, her right arm deflecting it over her shoulder. Her left fist sank into Big Em’s ample middle bringing a gasp of pain and folding her over neatly. The right fist came up, it was a beautiful blow, an uppercut straight out of the book. Big Em’s jaw took the punch, her head snapped back and she was lifted up until she was erect, then went on over to hit the floor with a crash that jarred the walls of the room.
‘And that’s that, Paddy,’ said Dusty Fog from where he sat in a place of honour at the ring side.
Magoon, face flushed with excitement, looked at the three smiling Texans and shook his head:
‘Divil a bit of it, Cap’n darlin’. Old Em’ll come skipping out of there like a fairy when time’s called.’ He watched Big Em’s seconds dragging her back to her corner. Anything less likely or fairylike was hard to imagine, but he raised his bull-voice in a bellow which rang over every other sound. ‘Come on now, Em. They can’t hurt us.’
For once in his life Magoon was wrong. Big Em was no nearer coming out on her own feet at the end of the minute than she’d been when her seconds carried her back at the end of the previous round. Time was called and Phyllis managed to get to her feet, then staggered to the ring centre. If Big Em came out, Phyllis knew the fight was over. She couldn’t do another thing. From the way she swayed it even looked as if she might not be able to keep her feet long enough to know.
Big Em’s seconds played for time, trying desperately to get the woman to even show some signs. Then as the referee of the bout waved them to bring their fighter forward they shrugged and acknowledged defeat. For a second the room was silent as the soldiers saw their pride and joy lying beaten. Then the cheers rolled up and Phyllis was announced the winner. She did not hear the cheers, or Magoon’s delighted yells for her legs gave way and she piled up on the floor.
It was the following morning, and there was a large group around the Thornett wagon. Janice and Elwin stood discussing plans for improving his act. Molly and Bronson, resplendent with the three bars and arc of silk of his new rank on his sleeve, were arranging to meet when his furlough came due in a month. Big Em and Magoon looked at Phyllis now Mrs. Erazmus K. Thornett. The wedding was over, and Dusty Fog found he’d added being best man to his numerous other achievements.
‘When do I get another crack at the title, Madam?’ asked Big Em.
‘I’m afraid you do not, me dear,’ Thornett replied for his wife. ‘I cannot countenance my wife fist fighting. Therefore, as of now, Madam Fiona retired undefeated.’
‘Except the one time, way I recollect it,’ Dusty remarked. ‘Where’re you going for the honeymoon, Phyllis?’
Phyllis leaned back against the wagon and threw back her head, easing her aching body. She looked at Thornett for guidance, but for once he did not appear to be able to decide.
‘Any place the wagon can take us,’ Phyllis finally replied. ‘Except for Baptist’s Hollow.’
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