by J. T. Edson
The entire crowd in the saloon, even the hardened drinkers formed a large circle around the fighting girls, yelling their approval and encouragement. The cowhands were almost all rooting for Beth. She was one of them and they wanted to see her hand the other girl her needings. The saloon girls were just as wildly cheering Lynn, hoping to see the townswoman who’d trespassed on their domain beaten.
The two girls rolled apart and forced themselves to their feet, standing with legs braced apart, hair dishevelled and gasping for breath.
‘Had enough?’ gasped Lynn, hitching up her pants.
Beth licked the blood which trickled from the side of her mouth. Then she swung a wild punch which staggered Lynn backwards into the bar. Lynn hung there for a moment and as Beth came to her, lowered her head to butt into her and resume the wild fight. They reeled backwards, fighting just as wildly as before and went down again, neither able to gain any advantage over the other.
Big Molly, one of the bartenders, forced her way to Ella’s side, watching the exhausted girls for a moment, then asked: ‘Want me to stop them?’
‘You try and you’d have all the cowhands to deal with,’ replied Ella. She saw Bix Smith and Simon Girty in the crowd and shook her head in answer to the unspoken word of the old first deputy.
Lynn and Beth were on their feet now, struggling weakly as they staggered backwards. Lynn felt herself hit the edge of a table; Beth was pushing swinging slaps at her face and, trying to avoid punishment, Lynn went backwards on to the table top. Beth’s reaction was automatic and instinctive. She lunged on to the table, on top of Lynn, trying to bang the other girl’s head against the hard wood. Beth was exhausted, she could hardly breathe and the other girl’s face appeared to be whirling before her eyes. She felt Lynn struggle weakly beneath her, then she rolled off and Lynn was throwing a leg astride her. With the last of her strength Beth twisted Lynn from her. Locked in each other’s arms they rolled across the top of the table.
Seeing what was going to happen, Ella started forward. She was too late, for the girls rolled off the table and crashed to the floor. They lit down side by side and came apart, flopping on to their backs, then laying still. Apart from the heaving of their breasts, neither girl made a move; they’d been all but exhausted on the table and the fall finished the fight.
Ella was the first to get to the girls. She dropped on to her knees and looked down nervously at each of them in turn, showing as much concern over Beth as she did over Lynn. She looked up at Braden, who was by her side, and there was something like relief on her face. She’d seen cat-fights in plenty while running a saloon and knew that neither girl was seriously hurt. They’d both got the makings of a black eye, a bloody nose and a swollen lip, but there was no serious injury. Tenderly she pulled Beth’s torn-open shirt together and then looked at the cheering, wildly excited crowd. There was one way of getting rid of them and she took it.
‘Drinks on the house, Madge. Belly up to the bar and drink to a pair of real game gals, boys!’
The words brought the desired result, there was a rush for the bar. A few of the saloon girls gathered around and one looked at the dirty, sweat-streaked and bruised faces.
‘They look a helluva lot alike,’ she said.
Ella stared at the girl and there was real fear in her eyes. ‘Get among the crowd, you bunch!’ she ordered. ‘Keep them talking.’
The girls went, not knowing what brought on a sudden hard note in their boss’s voice and put it to her worry about the fight. Ella let out a long sigh, then looked at Seth Braden as he bent over Beth.
‘Poor lil Beth,’ he said gently. ‘She’ll be stiff’n a dead polecat tomorrow morning. I’ll put her in the back of the wagon and get her home.’
‘Keep her in town,’ Ella suggested.
‘Nope,’ replied Braden, picking the girl up, then calling for the rest of the BM hands. ‘See you next time I come in, Ella.’ Ella nodded in reply, then told Big Madge to help Lynn to her room. The big blonde woman lifted Lynn up and made her way across the room to the stairs which led to the upper part of the building.
‘That gal of your’n sure can fight, Ella,’ whooped one of the men who’d been in tile card game with her.
‘Yes, they can,’ replied Ella, then stopped, her face even more pale.
However, the man did not appear to have noticed the way she put the words and turned to the card table once more. Her attention was no longer on the game, for she was worried. The girl’s remark, or her own slip of the tongue, almost brought out Ella’s secret, the secret that not even Lynn shared with her.
Before the fight could be discussed too much there was a more than welcome interruption. The local Judge came in with the news that Drifter Smith was elected sheriff with a large majority. There was only one snag now, the young Texan was not back from searching for the boy. If he was, he had not made his appearance at the saloon. Bix slipped out, at Ella’s suggestion, to head for the jail and see if he could find the youngster.
The jail office was empty, but when Bix opened the door of the living quarters, he saw something which worried him, Waco’s gunbelt, with the matched, staghorn-butted Colts, lay on the bed with his star. There was no sign of him, nor had there been his big paint outside. Thinking the young Texan might be tending to his horse, Bix looked out back, his eyes going to the horses belonging to the five hold-up men, in the civic pound. Waco’s big paint stallion did not take kindly to strange horses, so the young Texan might have taken the horse to the livery barn for the night. It was unusual for him to walk the streets without his gunbelt, but he did have his rifle and the barn was not far enough away.
Bix checked on his prisoners, then headed back to the Twin Bridge Saloon. He walked in and immediately Molly, one of the bartenders, came forward. ‘Ella’d like to see you in the office, Bix,’ she said.
Bix went to the small side room Ella used as an office. He knocked and opened the door. The moment he stepped inside he knew there was something badly wrong. It showed on Simon’s face and on Ella’s. Bix could never remember when he had seen her so worried.
‘Is he there?’ Ella asked.
‘Nope, his gunbelt’s on the bed. I figger he’s gone to the livery barn with his hoss—’
‘He’s in trouble!’ Ella interrupted. ‘Wharton shot him, his horse carried him out of town.’
‘What!’ bellowed Bix. ‘I’ll go out there’n’ I’ll tear Wharton’s heart out with my bare hands.’
‘Sit down and keep quiet!’ Ella ordered, knowing the old deputy was real likely to do just what he said. ‘You can’t do Waco any good tonight. I don’t know for certain what’s happened. Listen, at dawn tomorrow I want you to take out and try to trail Waco. I’ll fix it that if he’s hurt, or you can’t find him, there will be a letter from him, explaining why he’s not here. I’ll want the jail log again to do it.’
‘Go git it,’ Bix ordered and Simon left the room, headed for the jail. Bix went on: ‘How’d you get to know, Ella?’
‘A friend told me Wharton came to the Guesthouse in a hurry and told Kyte, who called Von Schnabel over and told him.’
Bix asked no more questions. He knew Ella would never tell him who the friend was and did not blame her. Whoever it was who worked for Ella at the Guesthouse Saloon was taking a big chance. One slip would mean almost certain death.
The old deputy was worried. The previous sheriff was murdered and they’d never been able to find the man who did the killing. Now Waco might also be dead.
Ella was a worried woman as she made the arrangements for the forged letter to be written. Waco might be dead, it was likely he was. If so she would have to try and stall Von Schnabel as long as she could. It might be that she would have to do as her daughter wished, call on Butch Cassidy to help her out.
The office door opened and Lynn limped in. The girl’s face was washed and no longer bleeding but her right eye was a beautiful shiner. She’d tucked her shirt into her trousers again but had not changed.
&nbs
p; Lynn looked distinctly uneasy, she knew her mother did not like cat-fights or trouble in the saloon and expected a severe bawling out. ‘I’m sorry, maw,’ she said contritely. ‘Who was she?’
‘Your—a girl who owns a ranch in the back country,’ Ella replied.
‘I couldn’t lift my gun against her, maw. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t do it.’
Ella slipped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, squeezing her gently. ‘I’m pleased you didn’t, dear. Now you get to your room, have a bath and go to bed.’
Lynn left the room and Bix Smith entered, followed by Frank Derringer, the gambler. He smiled a greeting, then the smile died as he saw that this was more than a social call. He knew Ella too well to think otherwise; the woman was clearly worried and he’d played poker with her enough to know how good a poker-face she possessed. He took the chair Ella indicated and sat back.
‘How well do you know Drifter Smith, Frank?’ asked Ella.
‘You mean Waco, don’t you?’ he replied.
‘We mean Waco,’ agreed Ella, cutting through Bix’s angry growl.
‘I served as a special deputy with him under Dusty Fog in Mulrooney. Taught him some about cards. We’re old friends. I didn’t let on we knew each other. I’d heard about that trouble down in Arizona and didn’t want to tip his hand, Couldn’t say I knew him, not after he didn’t take me in for killing that cardshark.’
‘He’s in trouble,’ said Ella.
The relaxation left Derringer and he sat up straight, his face suddenly hard and cold. ‘Tell it, ma’am,’ he snapped.
Ella told all she knew, the gambler not speaking until she finished, then growling out a threat to kill Wharton on sight. Ella shook her head: ‘That won’t help, or I’d do it myself.’
‘I heard shooting, was playing in a big stake game along at the Hotel,’ Derringer remarked. ‘I’ll start playing at the Guesthouse from now on, see if I can get some certain proof. There’ll be three men coming along, If anything happened to the boy, they’ll just about tear this town apart, board by board.’
‘Who do you mean?’ asked Ella.
‘Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid. Waco’s closer’n any brother to them three and they’ll be here as soon as they get word. They’ll just about tear Two Forks into lil pieces if they don’t get the right answers.’
Bix left the office and headed for the jail. He found Simon with disturbing news. The five prisoners had obtained a key to the cell and were gone. The old deputy cursed savagely, but there was nothing much he could do.
The following morning, Von Schnabel and several cronies arrived breathing fire and smoke over the escape of the prisoners. The German’s insistence on seeing the new sheriff was answered by Bix handing him a sheet of paper. The German began to read and his face showed a mixture of anger and disbelief.
‘Bix,’ he read. ‘Heard I was elected sheriff. I’m headed out for the range, want to take a look around and see about this rustling that’s going on. I’ll see you in a week or so. Take care of the town and don’t let any gals get hold of your whiskers while I’m gone.’
He compared the writing on the paper with the entry on the page of the jail log, recording Waco’s finding of the boy and return to town, then departure to investigate the rustling. The writing was identical, that he was sure of.
So Von Schnabel was left with no option but to take the word of the letter. He could not announce that one of his men claimed to have bushwacked and run the new sheriff out of town. He tried to stir up public opinion over the escape of the five men, but most folks were inclined to scoff at it. The men had taken nothing in the hold-up, were not badly wanted elsewhere, so their escape saved the county the cost of a trial. Folks regarded Waco’s disappearance as yet another proof of their new sheriff’s willingness to get on with his work. They thought he was giving good value for his money.
A week passed slowly by, the town remained quiet, held down by a rejuvenated pair of tough deputies. Frank Derringer played in the games at the Guesthouse, his eyes often on Matt Kyte, who was by now almost always accompanied by Ben Wharton.
The town was quiet, to most people it was peaceful and calm. To Ella Baker, Frank Derringer and the two deputies it was merely the lull before the storm broke.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BETH MORROW HELPS A STRAY
IT was dark when Waco and the boy rode over the bridge behind the Twin Bridge Saloon. The young Texan was deeply puzzled and worried. His mind was still busy trying to connect that strange, distant chattering sound with what he’d seen. The boy was very hungry, he’d also tired his horse and so Waco was forced to stay out on the range for a time. He’d shot and cooked a rabbit for them, then made a check on the story of the Indians. He found the new tracks of a bunch of horses, at least ten or so he made it. The thing which worried him was that only one of the horses was shod.
The office was deserted when Waco arrived. He’d hoped to find one of the deputies with whom he could discuss what he’d heard and found out. The street was quiet, a few people moving around but no one he could recognise and ask about Bix or Simon.
Stripping off his gunbelt, Waco went into the living quarters at the rear, hoping that one of the deputies would be there. He could see no sign of them and so left his gunbelt and the deputy’s badge lying on his bed while he went to tend to his horse.
Waco rode his paint around the side of the jail and brought it to a halt by the civic pound. He swore under his breath as he saw the five horses, belonging to the men he’d arrested in the morning, standing in the corral. The big paint was not the kind of animal to take kindly to sharing a corral with strange horses and there would be trouble if Waco left it with the others. He sighed, it would be easy enough to take the horse to the livery barn and leave it for the night.
For a moment Waco thought of going inside and strapping on his guns, but decided against it. He’d got the rifle in the saddleboot and a box of .45×75 shells in his pocket, that would be all the armament he needed. So he rode the horse along the back street, headed for the livery barn.
Some instinct made Waco turn in his saddle. He saw a dark shape coming from a side turning. The shape looked familiar, Waco’s turn saved his life for the man held a gun. Flame lashed from the barrel towards Waco, even as he was bending for the rifle. He felt a searing pain across the side of his head and slid forward along the paint’s neck. Another shot flamed out, the bullet hissing close over the young Texan’s head. Instantly the big paint was running, carrying its master away from the dangerous area; luck, pure blind luck the only thing keeping Waco in the saddle. The man who’d done the shooting started to sprint after the horse, saw it thunder over the Colorado River and stood listening to the fast fading beat of the paint’s hooves. Then he turned and slouched back towards the busy Colorado Street, coming into the light from a saloon window. Ben Wharton stood in the light for a moment, a grin on his face. He’d seen that damned Drifter Smith riding towards him and took a chance on getting him. The Texan must be either dead or badly injured, that was for sure. If he’d only been grazed, or the bullet had missed, he’d not have run but would have been throwing lead back with both hands.
Out on the range the big paint finally halted, standing snorting in the dark. Waco still lay across the horse’s neck, then slowly he slid down and fell to the ground. The huge paint stood like a statue over its master for a long time. At last Waco started to drag himself to his feet. He groaned and put a hand to his head, feeling the rough dry blood which smeared his face. Weakly he dragged himself back on to the horse’s saddle and sat for a moment looking around him in a dazed manner as if he did not know where he was. The world appeared to be roaring around him and he started the paint walking towards where, in the distance, he saw the flickering light of a camp fire. The paint walked on, moving carefully, as if it was trying to avoid jolting him. Waco clung on, the fire was getting closer. He’d a blurred impression of people around the fire, then everything went black again.
‘How’re you feeling, Beth gal?’ Braden asked and nodded to the cook who brought a box for her to sit on.
‘I thought it was a fair fight,’ she replied, managing to smile. ‘Then she hit me with something hard and that’s all I can remember. What’d she hit me with, a chair?’
‘The floor,’ replied Darkie with a grin.
Beth sank on to the box, ruefully touched her swollen right eye and winced to the delight of the watching hands. She did not meet Braden’s accusing eyes for Beth was feeling ashamed of herself. She was in the wrong in going into the Twin Bridge Saloon and honest enough to admit it. However, she’d been the spread’s representative in the fight and did not like to think that she’d let the brand down by being beaten by the other girl.
‘Sure was a fair whirl, Beth,’ whooped another of the hands.
‘Even if it did come out a stand-off.’
‘A stand-off?’ she asked, looking at the grinning faces around her. ‘But I thought I lost.’
‘Ran a draw,’ Braden replied. ‘You both fell off that table and were too tuckered out to go on.’
She watched her foreman’s face, reading the worry on it and forming the wrong idea of why he was worried. The other hands started to prepare their bedrolls for spending the night on the range, as they’d left town far later than they aimed to do.
‘Don’t you worry, Seth,’ she said warmly. ‘Mrs. Baker won’t hold it against you for what happened.’
‘What do you mean, gal?’ Braden growled.
‘I’ve heard the boys joshing you about going to see her every time you go into town. You never use any other saloon.’