by J. T. Edson
As a precaution, in case he should be seen by them or some other bandidos who chanced to be in the vicinity, the Kid had first made some changes to the appearance of himself and his mount. After applying the black powder in irregular patches to the animal, he had changed his attire for a tartan shirt, faded blue Levi’s and a garishly multi-colored, bandanna from his war bag. As his hat was in the style which was practically de rigueur for every self-respecting son of the Lone Star State, he had made no alteration to its shape. Nor had he deleted any portion of his armament, knowing that if he was seen from such a close distance that it could be identified, he would be recognized anyway and have need of the weapons.
With the precautions taken, the Kid had set off after the party. At last, however, he had reluctantly conceded he was wasting time which might be employed to greater advantage in another direction. The nature of the terrain they were traversing was such that, even with his considerable ability at unseen movement, he had been unable to draw closer to the party. At no time could he reach a point from which, should an opportunity present itself, he could launch the only kind of attack offering the red haired girl a chance of survival.
When the Texan had observed that the land ahead was becoming even more open, he had decided against endangering the captive further by keeping after the party. Nor, as setting her free was clearly going to be impossible, did he consider there was any urgent need to keep up his unproductive pursuit. Knowing the way in which Don Ramon Manuel Jose Peraro behaved towards the victims of kidnappings, provided there was no attempt at rescue or escape and the money demanded as a ransom was forthcoming, he had no fears for her safety during the remainder of the journey to Escopeta. Her abductors would be all too aware of what would happen to them should she be molested in any way while in their hands. Furthermore, as long as the instructions which he felt sure had already been delivered to her family were carried out promptly and to the letter, he was equally confident she would not be ill-treated or abused in any way throughout her stay at Bernardo’s Cantina.
Having reached his conclusions and being satisfied he was acting for the best, the Texan had turned back without his presence in the vicinity having been detected!
While the Kid was retracing his journey towards the border, he had given thought to the affair in which he had become involved!
It was obvious that, for the girl to have been selected as a victim of a kidnapping, she must belong to a wealthy family. Yet, from what the Texan remembered of Wet Slim, he was unable to think of anybody who would be sufficiently rich to have attracted the attention of Peraro. However, as he had not visited the town for over two years, he had realized that people qualifying for such a category could have arrived either as visitors or permanent residents without his knowledge. Should they be newcomers, whether on a permanent or temporary basis, they might not be aware of the full ramifications of the affair when they heard what had happened to the girl. Fortunately, even if they obeyed an order not to inform the local peace officer, McKie was a leading member of the community and might have been consulted by them. Should this not have happened, the Kid considered his best course was to go to the town and learn the identity of the victim from the elderly leatherworker, who was sure to know it. Then they could visit the family, give advice and, provided no other instructions had been received, he could also offer his services as an intermediary to deliver the ransom money and bring back the captive.
Being aware that he was faced with a long journey to and—should his offer be accepted—back from Wet Slim, the Texan had not pushed his horse too hard as they were making for the border. While he undoubtedly would be able to obtain relief mounts if necessary, he wanted the big stallion available for use in any emergency. Its specialized training made it invaluable under such circumstances. Alert to the possibility of being seen along the way and wanting to avoid word of his continued presence in the area from reaching Peraro, he had not reverted to his usual attire. Nor had he taken the time on reaching the Rio Grande, to remove the disguise from his mount.
Primarily, the town of Wet Slim existed to serve the needs of five ranches and various other businesses in the region surrounding it. Once, it had also been a center for a thriving group of smugglers among whom the Kid and his father had been prominent. Since the death of Big Sam Ysabel and his own retirement, in addition to the fact that the reinstatement of the Texas Rangers had produced more effective enforcement of the law than had been the case during the hated State Police of the ‘Reconstruction’ period, smuggling had decreased and the population had lost a previously lucrative source of revenue.
However, the cattle industry had brought back solvency after the period of recession resulting from the decision by Texas to support the Confederacy in the War Between The States, and the citizens had shared in the benefits to an extent which, in part, helped offset the departure of the smugglers.
While passing along the main—in fact, only—street, the remainder of the buildings being scattered and erected at whatever location the whims of the respective owners had caused to be selected, the Kid noticed the small jailhouse was in darkness. There had been a number of horses tied to the hitching rails of the River Queen Saloon and the two business premises on either side of it. Judging by the noise from inside the well lit place of entertainment, he had concluded it could be pay night for the local ranches and that the crews were in town to celebrate.
Slipping from the saddle, the Texan glanced at the sign above the doorway of his destination as he was patting the neck of the big ‘skewbald’ stallion. A grin came to his face. While McKie undoubtedly did produce leatherwork of an excellent quality, there had been a time when his main source of income had been derived from the goods carried by the Ysabels and other smugglers.
Putting the thought from his mind, the Kid lifted the Canada goose from where he had carried it suspended on the horn of his saddle. As he had made use of the secret crossing, he had considered there was no sense in wasting the big bird which had inadvertently caused his involvement in the kidnapping. Carrying it by grasping the legs in his left hand, he had stepped silently across the sidewalk. The habit of avoiding the making of more noise than was absolutely necessary, developed in his childhood, had become second nature and was followed without the need for conscious thought. Not for the first time, he was grateful for the trait. Halting just outside, his arrival clearly being unnoticed by those inside the building, he looked through the open door and found the sight which met his gaze to be most interesting.
Showing no sign of change since the last occasion when he and the Kid had met, Jock McKie gave the impression of being a somewhat aged, but still full of sand and grit, fighting cock. Of medium height, lean and white haired, he wore a collarless white shirt, tartan ‘trews’ and Indian moccasins. However, the absence of his leather apron suggested he was not attending to the business of his establishment. Nor did his demeanor indicate he was enamored of the man he was facing across the counter.
‘And I’m telling ye the mon’s oot of his senses to even think about doing it!’ the elderly leatherworker was saying, his lined and oak brown face as impassive as if it was carved out of the rock of the Scottish Highlands from which his forefathers had come. In spite of that, to anybody who knew him well, the absence of his normal Texas drawl indicated his temper was rising. There was a noticeable asperity in his voice as he went on, ‘Which I’ll be telling him myself—!’
‘Mr. Handle don’t need no advice from you, old timer!’ claimed the man responsible for the annoyance. He was dressed like a working cowhand, but the low hanging Colt Artillery Peacemaker at his right side and other signs informed anybody who knew the ways of the West that this was unlikely to be his real occupation. He had all the earmarks of a hired gun fighter and his accent suggested his origins were closer to Kansas than Texas. ‘So, was I you, I’d stay way out of things that don’t concern you.’
‘You’re not me, I thank the Good Lord above,’ McKie asserted, his Scottish accent
so thick it could have been cut with a knife. ‘And I’ll do and say’s I please without asking the likes of you if it’s all right for me to do it.’
‘Yeah?’ the burly Kansan said, his right hand moving in the direction of the revolver in its contoured fast draw holster. ‘Well—!’
There was a dry clicking sound and the hard-case found himself looking into the bore of the old Colt Model of 1848 Dragoon revolver which had been scooped rapidly from its place of concealment under the counter, being cocked as it rose, by the owner of the establishment. Taking a pace backwards, he hurriedly moved his hand well clear of his own weapon. While he counted himself a better than fair hand with a gun, it was well known around Wet Slim that the elderly leatherworker ‘took no sass, but sarsaparilla’ and was well able to back up any play called for in such circumstances.
‘All right,’ the man growled, trying to bluster his way clear without letting it be obvious he was backing down. ‘But, afore you bill in, just bear in mind how much business Mr. Handle puts your way. You’ll miss it should he get riled up and stop coming here.’
‘I managed without his business afore he come and likely can even though he’s here,’ McKie answered, showing no sign of being impressed. ‘And, like I said, I’ll do just’s I see fit. Which same I aim to go and speak my piece about what he’s fixing to do. Happen he doesn’t like that, he’s free to take his trade any other place around here he can find to do it—Trouble being, we both know there isn’t any.’
‘I’ll take him your word,’ the hard-case promised sullenly.
‘The sooner the better’ll suit me,’ the leather worker declared.
Sent to sound out the sentiments of McKie towards the plans contemplated by his employer, the man—who was currently going by the name, ‘Ira Jacobs’—had soon discovered they were adverse. He had not even been allowed to offer the reasons before it had become obvious the old Scot was in complete disagreement. His attempt to ensure the objections were not made publicly had only succeeded in getting up McKie’s dander and he could only take the matter further in a way which, even should he survive, would do nothing to help Philo Handle with what was intended. However, precautions had been taken in case the old Scot should prove intractable. Wanting to implement them, he concluded he may as well leave without prolonging the futile discussion.
Swinging around, Jacobs was in a far from amiable frame of mind when he discovered there had been a witness to his humiliation. Studying the tall figure lounging against the jamb of the door, he drew erroneous conclusions. If the Kid had been wearing the all black clothing, he might have been more impressed. As it was, studying the old Dragoon in its low cavalry-twist draw holster—the bowie knife being concealed from his view—the inexpensive cowhand attire and the babyishly innocent lines of the Indian-dark face, he decided he was looking at somebody upon whom he could assert domination as a means of working off his anger.
‘You!’ the hard-case barked, starting to walk across the room.
‘Me?’ inquired the young Texan, with a deceptive mildness in his drawl which was a strong contrast to the hard Mid-West voice of the man coming towards him.
‘Yes, you!’ Jacobs confirmed. ‘Get down to the saloon!’
‘Suppose I tell you to go right out and climb up your thumb?’ the Kid asked, still speaking as gently as if merely discussing some casual and unimportant topic.
‘I’ll be willing to bet you couldn’t do it, Jacobs,’ McKie commented, lowering the hammer of the Dragoon and laying it on top of the counter.
Even if he had not heard the remark passed by the elderly leatherworker, the hard-case would have taken grave exception to being addressed in such a fashion by somebody who he believed to be no more than a young and unimportant cowhand. He had his reputation to consider and knew this would suffer if word went out that he had allowed such disrespectful behavior to go unpunished. Letting out a low growl, he increased the speed of his advance and once more began to move his hands towards the position of threat above the butt of the revolver.
‘Here, catch!’
Speaking the two words, the Kid moved swiftly across the threshold as if intending to meet the hard-case in the middle of the room. As he was doing so, he swung and threw the Canada goose ahead of him, accompanying it with an excellent impersonation of an enraged gander gobbling while launching an attack. The sound was so life-like that, taken with the sight of the big bird rushing through the air towards him, Jacobs was too startled to react by reaching for his gun. Instead, taking a long stride to the rear involuntarily, he used both hands to knock the approaching shape aside. Even as his mind was registering that the object he touched was too stiff to be alive, he found the time had passed when he might have rectified the situation.
Having created the diversion his instincts had warned might be necessary, due to his acceptance that he was not more than adequate where the rapid drawing and firing of a handgun was concerned, the Kid had made the most of it. Twisting the palm of his right hand outwards as he was throwing the bird, he closed it around the butt of the Dragoon. Although he suspected the speed with which he twisted the weapon from its holster might have proved insufficient if things had been even, he had turned the odds in his favor by the ploy.
By the time the burly hard-case had responded without thinking, on finding himself apparently being attacked by an angry Canada goose, the Texan was holding the big Colt free of leather and ready for use.
What was more, Jacobs discovered a startling change had come over the ‘harmless’ young cowhand he had expected to browbeat without difficulty!
Crouching slightly behind the massive old revolver, there was none of the earlier aura of babyish innocence about the Kid!
Rather there was an impression of the Texan being as mean as two starving grizzly bears and just as eager for trouble!
Studying the Indian-dark face, which now bore the aspect of a Pehnane Comanche Dog Soldier making ready to count coup on the hated white-eye brother, Jacobs was alarmed and perturbed by the metamorphosis. He tried for a moment to meet the menacing challenge of the red hazel eyes and failed. Slowly and for the second time in only a minute or so, his right hand drifted away from the butt of the revolver towards which it had been returning. His every instinct warned that to have attempted to even touch the butt, much less essay a draw, would prove both futile and fatal.
‘Hey now!’ the hard-case said, in a placatory manner which was like a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘Take it easy, young feller, you’re too quick to temper. Mr. Handle told me to collect everybody I saw and take them down to the saloon—!’ Knowing his employer had become a person of importance around the town and surrounding district, he continued with the air of one who was delivering a friendly warning it would be ill-advised to ignore, ‘Which he won’t take it kind if you don’t go.’
‘Leave us bow our heads to Mr. Handle, whoever he might be,’ the Kid replied sardonically, showing no sign of being placated and without so much as lowering the old Dragoon. ‘Anyways, happen he’s so all fired important hereabouts, maybe you’d best collect yourself and head on down there. I know the way, should I take the notion to drop by.’
Glancing over his shoulder, Jacobs found he was being watched by McKie!
Nothing showed on the leathery face of the Scot to indicate how he regarded the situation. Despite finding it amusing, he was too wise to allow his feelings to become apparent. If he was to do so, he realized the already wounded pride of the hard-case might demand an attempt be made to recoup for the loss of face. Being aware of how competently his latest visitor could cope with such a situation, he had no doubt over the way in which such an attempt would turn out. For all that, under the circumstances, he considered the outcome would be unadvisable. With the conditions currently prevailing, the arrival of the Ysabel Kid struck him as being too providential for him to have any desire to see anything detract from its potential value.
‘Tell Mr. Handle I’m coming and ask him if he’ll hold off until I’v
e talked to him,’ the elderly leatherworker requested, offering a way in which the confrontation could be brought to an end without hostile action by either participant. Wanting to save identifying the Kid until a more suitable moment, he went on, ‘And I reckon this young feller’ll be willing to come along with me, after he’s seen to whatever brought him in here.’
‘Why sure,’ the young Texan asserted, deducing correctly what had motivated the offer and being willing to act in accordance with the wishes of his old friend. ‘I’d be right obliged to go along to the saloon, only I for sure don’t take kind to nobody telling me I have to.’
Listening to the comments, Jacobs realized he was being offered what amounted to a flag of truce!
The hard-case also deduced the respective offers were not being presented out of fear of arousing his own wrath, or concern over possible repercussions from his employer. Nothing he saw about either man suggested they were in the slightest concerned over such considerations. He was all too aware that the standing in the community possessed by McKie was sufficient to counteract any threat posed by a newcomer like Philo Handle. Nor was the deadly-looking young Texan any more likely to be swayed by worries over the possible consequences of provoking his employer. While the gun still held by the ‘cowhand’ was as out of date as that which had been produced by the owner of the leather shop, it was handled with a competence which did nothing to reduce its considerable potential. What was more, babyishly innocent as the newcomer had seemed to be on his arrival, there was nothing in his demeanor to suggest he would hesitate before employing it to good purpose should the need arise.
Accepting there was nothing constructive he could do under the circumstances, Jacobs gave a nod. Then, making sure he kept his right hand well clear of the Peacemaker, he walked by the young Texan and from the building without so much as a glance behind him.
Ten – Let Them Fight It Out