by J. T. Edson
‘Where’d a man find the livery barn, ma’am?’ asked the handsome giant, halting his horse and looking down at Lynn.
Lynn told him, studying them all. She’d seen hard men, fast men, in plenty, but here were four who could handle the best she’d seen. Even the small man, when she came to look more closely at him. They did not waste time in small talk, but turned their horses and rode off towards the barn.
The girl was worried as they went by. They were four real hard men and they were on the prod, or she missed her guess. If they were going to work for Von Schnabel there would be bad trouble. Even if Waco was in town he would have trouble in handling four men like those.
The owner of the livery barn studied the newcomers with some interest. At first he thought the paint belonged to Drifter Smith. The small man was not such a fine figure as Drifter Smith though, even if he was a Texan. The owner of the barn saw the way each man set his guns right as soon as he dismounted. They did it instinctively, it was the mark of the real good man with a gun.
‘We’ll treat ‘em to a stall each, friend,’ the blond giant remarked as he dismounted.
On the ground his great size and the spread of his shoulders was emphasised by the way he towered over the other three.
‘Sure thing, mister,’ replied the owner. ‘Four stalls?’
‘One each, apiece,’ agreed the dark-faced, innocent-looking rider of the white. There was something wild and Indian about him that showed to the old-timer’s eyes. ‘Happen you don’t want none of your stock eating. This here Nigger hoss of mine’s the only carnivorous hoss in the world.’
‘Looks like it, too,’ grunted the old-timer.
‘You can hold our duffle until we find a place to stay,’ said the small man, his eyes ranging around the horses in the stalls. There were questions the old-timer would have liked to ask but his conversational attempts fell on stony ground and he got grunts in reply. He watched the four men tending to their horses with worried eyes. They were Texans and they’d rode far and fast. That showed in the signs. They were cowhands and good ones, that also showed, as did the fact that their guns were more than show-off decorations. They were too quiet, and silence in a cowhand was an ominous sign.
By the time the horses were attended to and the four men left, the owner of the barn knew one thing about them. The blond giant was called Mark, the black-dressed youngster was Lon, the small man Dusty and the other Doc. The names tied into something.
He walked to the door of the barn and looked out, watching the four Texans walking along the street. He scratched his stubby jaw and growled:
‘Now who be ye? Them names tie into something. That small man though, naw, he cain’t be. I’d say you was some of Drifter Smith’s kin for all of that.’
‘Make a start at the Guesthouse, that’s where Frank said to look,’ the small man called Dusty remarked as they halted on the street.
‘Could see the jailhouse first,’ the big man replied. ‘See if the boy’s come back.’
‘Take the Guesthouse first, I didn’t see any sign of his horse in the barn.’
The four men walked slowly along the street. They halted outside the Guesthouse, standing on the sidewalk and looking around them. Then they heard a woman scream in pain and thrust open the batwing doors. What they saw made them take sudden and violent action.
The bar-room was empty, all except for some dozen gun-hung men and four or five girls. All were looking at two men who held a pretty, red-haired girl over a table while a big, gambling man used a quirt on her already lacerated back.
‘You lousy slut,’ Matt Kyte, the quirt user, yelled. ‘We caught you this time going to that bitch across the street. Tell us about—’
Mark thrust forward faster than any of the others. He caught up a heavy table and with a heave of powerful muscles sent it flying across the room as if it were made of paper. One of the men holding the girl gave a yell as the table hit him and knocked him staggering.
‘What the hell?’ Kyte snarled, turning.
Mark followed the chair up; he back-handed the other man from the girl, spinning him across the room and into the bar. Then, as Kyte swung up the quirt to strike at Mark, the Texan hit. It was a beautiful blow, thrown with the weight of the giant body behind it. Kyte’s head snapped back, the quirt flew from his hand, he went backwards across the room, arms flailing and crashed into a table, smashing it under him.
The other men whirled ready to take cards in the game, but Ben Wharton, eyes bulging out in fear at the sight of the four men, gave a warning:
‘Hold it. That’s Dusty Fog, Mark Counter, the Ysabel Kid and Doc Leroy.’
The first three names were more than enough to halt the crowd, though the last one was not exactly unknown in its own right.
Dusty Fog, the quiet, insignificant-looking young man, the man who might be overlooked in peaceful times. The small man who’d been one of the Confederate Army’s top three raiders, ranking with John Singleton Mosby and Turner Ashby, a captain at seventeen. The man who was segundo of the mighty OD Connected ranch in Texas, was known as trail boss, round-up captain, town-taming lawman. The Rio Hondo gun-wizard, the fastest of them all.
Mark Counter, the handsome blond giant who was even now moving in on Kyte. There was a man among men. His reputation as a fist fighter was without peer in the West. He was a tophand at the cattle business. There were many men who’d seen him in action that claimed he was almost as fast and accurate with his guns as his friend, Dusty Fog.
The third of the trio, the Ysabel Kid, was something of a name in his own right. They tell many tales on the United States-Mexican border of the black-dressed, baby-faced young man called the Ysabel Kid. Son of a wild Irish-Kentuckian father and a Creole-Comanche mother, the Kid was a dangerous young man. He was fast, if not exceptional, with his old Dragoon gun; with his knife he was acknowledged as being a real deadly dangerous fighting man, and with his rifle he was said to have no equal.
The fourth young man, that pallid, studious-looking cowhand, Doc Leroy, was not out of place in such a company. He made his name riding in the Wedge trail-crew herding cattle up the inter-state trails to the railheads in Kansas. Then he rode as a member of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit, the elite of the OD Connected ranch crew. Lately he’d been serving as an Arizona Ranger and had served with some distinction.
Kyte came up from the floor and charged at Mark Counter, to run into a man who really knew how to handle his fists. The gambler was not at his best from the first blow he took, and Mark beat him round the room. For all his size, Mark Counter was fast on his feet and his fists shot out like the stabbing tongue of a diamond-back rattler. Only they landed a whole lot harder, ripping into the gambler’s face and driving him across the room.
A bouncer, full of misguided loyalty, caught Mark’s arm to turn him. Mark came around fast. His right hand clamped on the bouncer’s fat throat, the other hand gripped his waistband. Mark’s muscles writhed and strained; the crowd let out a concerted gasp as fifteen stone of hard muscled flesh was lifted into the air and thrown over the bar.
Mark came around, sinking his fist almost wrist deep into Kyte’s stomach, then ripped up a blow with the other hand. Kyte looked as if he was going in two directions at once. He crashed to his back and lay still. Mark scooped the gambler up, pulled his coat off, then ripped his shirt from his back and flung him face down on the table next to where the girl lay.
There was not a move in the place, except for Doc Leroy, who went to examine the girl’s back. Mark stood for a moment, then went and picked up the quirt, holding it out to the nearest man.
‘Use it on him!’ Mark ordered. ‘You being so all-fire keen on quirtings.’
‘Like h—!’ began the man.
Mark’s fist, gripping the weighted butt of the quirt, drove up, the man’s head snapped back and he crashed to the floor. Then Mark looked at Joe Brindle, the Cockney was trying to back away but got no chance.
‘You make a start,’ said Mark ge
ntly.
Brindle took the quirt and started to use it. He used it to such effect that Kyte was brought from consciousness by the pain and screamed as the lash bit him.
‘Howdy, Bengeeman,’ drawled the Kid, watching Wharton’s face. ‘Dusty, we done got ole Bengeeman here. Looks just as savage as when you run him outa Danby, Texas. Allow he ought to be the next to show us how she’s done.’
Wharton gulped. He’d hoped that none of the trio would remember him from the skinner wars in Danby, Texas. They did remember. So did Wharton. He remembered a tall, good-looking youngster who rode with, them. A blond-haired boy who rode a big paint stallion and handled a brace of matched Colts like a master. Then he remembered the name of Doc Leroy’s Ranger partner and knew Drifter Smith’s true identity. He gulped again. He’d killed Waco and now four friends of the young lawman were here and looking for the man who did it.
The whipping went on until every man in the place had taken his turn. Then Mark released the barely conscious, moaning gambler and stepped back.
‘The girl walk, Doc?’ he asked.
Doc Leroy shook his head, his eyes hard and cold as he looked at the hired gunmen. ‘Nope. She’s unconscious. Asked me to take her to the Twin Bridge Saloon.’
Mark stepped forward and lifted the girl gently, trying to avoid hurting her lacerated, bleeding back. He carried the girl from the saloon and the other three Texans started to back towards the door.
‘We’re not taking your guns,’ remarked the Ysabel Kid. ‘And we’re surely hoping you try to use them.’
Which same was one hope the Kid would not get. Those gunmen knew that they were matched against three men who were well able to handle them. There was not a move made by any man in the room until the batwing doors swung closed on the Texans.
Mark was striding across the street, carrying the unconscious girl in his arms. The other three stood for a moment on the sidewalk, watching the saloon for some hostile sign but none came.
‘Reckon they’ll chance it, Dusty?’ asked Doc.
‘Not them,’ replied Dusty with complete confidence. ‘They don’t want to take on nobody who knows how to handle guns.’
‘This gal’s hurt real bad, Dusty,’ Mark called, waiting on the sidewalk outside the Twin Bridge Saloon. ‘She’s going to need a doctor.’
‘We’ll see she gets one—then we make a start at finding the boy.’
Ella Baker stared at the men as they came through the doors. Her eyes went to the form in Mark’s powerful arms and she crossed the room. Lynn laid down the dice cup she’d been using in a friendly game of One Flop with the bartender, Madge, and followed her mother.
‘What happened?’ Ella asked, feeling suddenly cold, for she recognised the girl’s red hair.
‘Caught a bunch of guns quirting her across the street,’ Mark replied. ‘She needs doctoring, ma’am—and real fast.’ Ella wasted no time in talk. She could see from the bloody mess on the girl’s back that medical aid was needed. With that thought she turned and gave her orders to the watching girls:
‘Lynn, go see if the doctor’s fit to handle this. Madge, show this gent to one of the rooms upstairs.’
Lynn started towards the door. Doc Leroy glanced at her, then looked again—hard. There was a look in his eyes which Dusty Fog never remembered seeing before and Doc said:
‘That bunch from across the street might try and stop you gal, I’d best go along with you.’
Dusty and the Kid eyed each other, grins coming to their lips as they watched the girl leave.
‘Ole Doc went easy, amigo.’ remarked Dusty.
Doc and the girl walked along the streets of the town. Lynn talked with him, freely and in a way which afterwards surprised her, for Lynn was a gal who knew something of men. She often wondered why she came to talk in such a manner to a complete stranger. They talked of many things, but strangely, the subject which brought Doc to Two Forks was not mentioned.
They reached the doctor’s house without being molested by the men from the Guesthouse. Opening the door Lynn led the way into the reception room, a small, dusty and dirty looking place. For a time they stood waiting, then the girl went to a side door and listened at it. She turned the handle, opened the door and looked in. Doc Leroy stood behind her and what he saw brought an angry oath from his lips.
Stretched on the floor, an empty whisky bottle in his hand and his head in a pool of spilled Scalp-Lifter, lay the doctor, sole medical practitioner for two hundred miles.
Doc stepped forward, lifting the man’s head and bending forward. The fumes of the cheap whisky hit him and his nose wrinkled in distaste. Pulling back the man’s eyelid Doc looked at the pupil. He let tile head drop back to the floor and came to his feet.
‘Dead drunk,’ he snapped. ‘Won’t be fit to work for a hell of a time.’
‘He’s often like that. Maw won’t let him buy it in our place any more.’
Doc did not answer for a moment, his eyes going around the room. He made his decision. There was no time to worry over the morals of the situation, not with a girl’s life at stake.
‘Watch the street, gal.’ he ordered. ‘Tell me if you see anybody.’
The girl did as she was told. She heard the crash of breaking glass and turned to see Doc taking bottles and bandages from the doctor’s glass-fronted supply cabinet. He took what he wanted, then made for the door.
‘What’re you fixing in to do, Doc?’ Lynn asked, following him out on to the street.
‘Looks like I’m going to need to do the chore myself.’
Ella was standing at the bar, talking with Dusty, Mark and the Kid when Lynn and Doc returned. She turned and looked at her daughter.
‘Where’s the doctor?’
‘Stunk-up drunk as usual,’ Lynn replied, then her face flushed and she went on. ‘He’s drunk again.’
‘Now ma’am,’ Doc put in, ‘I’ll want hot water, some clean white cloth, plenty of it. Get them sent up to wherever you’ve got the gal.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, looking at the pallid, studious face.
‘Look ma’am,’ Doc’s voice took on a steely note. ‘If something’s not done for that gal, and done fast, you’ll have a real dead friend.’
Ella’s mouth dropped open, for once in her life she was unable to think of anything to say. Lynn took it out of her hands.
‘You come with me, Doc,’ she said. ‘Madge, see that he gets all he wants.’
Madge grinned. ‘You got a real grown-up daughter there, Ella,’ she said and went to obey.
‘What can he do?’ Ella asked worriedly. ‘It’s work for a doctor.’
‘Which same’s just what Doc is, ma’am,’ Dusty replied. ‘He was within a year of finishing medical school when the Kiowas got his folks back home to Texas. Then his kid brother was killed in a stampede on the trail. He came back west and took on with the Wedge. I’ve seen him handle medical chores. He’s the man who held the typhoid outbreak down to Canvastown last year.’
‘There’s three babies alive today who wouldn’t have made it without Doc’s help, ma’am,’ Mark went on. ‘I’d surely take it kind if I could wash up and shave.’
‘Fetch your gear along and use my room,’ Ella answered. ‘Then I think we’ve got things to talk about.’
The Kid and Mark went to the livery-barn and brought back all four warbags to the Twin Bridge Saloon. They were all washed, shaved and changed; their dirty clothing taken to be washed by Ella, before Doc came from the other room. He grunted that the girl would be all right and they’d best keep a watch to make sure she did not get her face into the pillows. Then he went to wash, shave and change.
‘You should have seen Doc work,’ Lynn enthused as she came to join her mother and the Texas men. ‘I’ve never seen a man with such gentle hands.’
‘Why were that bunch cutting the gal up, ma’am?’ Dusty asked. ‘And why did she want to be brought across here?’
Ella did not reply to the question. She rose and crossed th
e room, returning with a staghorn-butted Colt Artillery Peacemaker in her hands. Dusty knew that gun, even without looking at the words inscribed on the backstrap.
‘To our pard, Waco from
Ole Devil’s Floating Outfit.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
CAPTAIN FOG TAKES OVER
NONE of the three Texans spoke for a long moment as they looked at the Colt Ella Baker held towards them. They’d not introduced themselves but she knew who they were.
Dusty Fog broke the silence, his voice hard. ‘Where’d you get that gun?’
Ella glanced around to make sure there was no one near enough to hear what she was going to say.
‘The mate to this gun’s down at the jail. I’ll take you along to see Bix Smith and we’ll tell you all we know.’
‘Where’s Waco?’ growled Mark Counter.
‘I don’t know. Kate, the girl you brought in, she was trying to find out for certain what happened to him. They must have caught on to what she was doing for me.’
‘And what was she doing for you, ma’am?’ inquired Dusty.
‘Finding out what the owner of the Guesthouse was up to. Kate’s mother was German, she spoke the language fluently, although none of the bunch over there knew about it. She put me on to a few moves Von Schnabel was working on, then she went too far. She put the clocks back in the Guesthouse, even got into Von Schnabel’s room and altered his watch while he was having a bath. That told them somebody was working against them. I should have got her out before—’
‘Just what is this German trying to do, ma’am?’
‘Take over everything in the town and county, Captain Fog. I believe he had the old sheriff killed and may have caused Waco’s death, too.’
‘The boy dead!’ growled Mark Counter. ‘Derry’s telegraph message never said anything about that.’