by J. T. Edson
Everything was in favor of Pilbourne and his men now. They had the others under the guns and were preparing to make the most of it. Already one of the cowhand bunch, Rusty Willis, was darting forward to try and rescue his friend. He should make the next victim. The herd would be coming along, shorthanded and could still be taken. Everything was in favor of the Mormons? or so Pilbourne thought, and it was a good thought.
Yet it was not correct.
Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid came into view on the rim above Pilbourne. They came riding their big stallions and each held a saddle gun in his hands as he came into sight.
Dusty had known men were waiting at the draw, known it because the Ysabel Kid had seen their camp and only the alert ears of the sentry prevented his getting in close enough to know more of the waiters. He’d not taken any chances, but had slipped away in Indian silence and warned Dusty, who laid on this surprise move. That it had cost one man his life was not Dusty’s fault.
The Kid’s old yellow boy rifle flowed to his shoulder and spat out, lancing flame down towards the valley. The bullet caught one of the watching men between the shoulder blades and tossed his lifeless body forward on to the rocks.
Dusty and Mark sent their horses down the slope in a wild sliding run that would have unseated a lesser rider. They were cavalrymen in training and their belief was that the best way to take an enemy was charge him while he was unprepared.
Down the slope they came, the Kid following them on foot, sending the big white stallion back over the rim to safety. Yet even as he ran the Kid kept up a rapid and accurate fire which did much to save Johnny’s life, for no man before the Kid dare stay up long enough to take a careful aim. Then the Kid found a spot and came to a halt. His pants pockets bulged with fodder for his old rifle as he forced the flat-nosed .44 bullets through the loading slot and fired again with barely a pause.
The surprise attack from above shook Pilbourne and his men, but they rallied quickly to it. So far only one of the six on Pilbourne’s side was dead, having been caught by the Kid’s bullet. The rest turned their attention to the attackers from above them.
Dusty saw a man come up from behind a rock, saw the Sharps carbine as the man brought it up. Dusty left his saddle, hit the ground running, went over a rock in a diving roll. He heard the crash of the Sharps and the impact as the lead hit the rock over which he’d just dived. Dusty ended his roll on his feet and the Winchester carbine spat, held hip high. The man with the Sharps spun around even as he opened the breech to insert a fresh load.
Swinging from the hips, Dusty levered another bullet into the carbine’s breech and threw a fast shot which dusted stone chips into the face of a Mormon who showed himself in an attempt to throw down on Mark.
Mark left his saddle and the big blood bay went on down the slope as its rider hit the ground. Following Dusty’s paint, the stallion turned back up the slope and over the top and slowed down, joining the Kid’s white and waiting for its master. Mark, however, was laying behind a rock and shooting at the men across the valley as he saw they were trying to get Rusty in his attempt to save Johnny.
The Kid’s rifle suddenly beat out a tattoo, blazing as fast as he could work the lever and take a fresh sight. One of his shots, thrown at a man on the opposite slope, caused the same man to rear up. Below, Mark’s sighting eye lined on the man, trigger finger squeezed and the Model ’78 Winchester kicked back hard. The man’s upwards jerk changed direction as the .44.40 bullet struck him and he went down once more.
In rushes from rock to rock Rusty made for Johnny. He hurdled one rock and went rolling over another, flattened for an instant behind yet a third, then darted forward to pull Johnny back behind the largest rock, into a place where he was out of danger from the rifles above him. Rusty knew, even though only a matter of a couple of minutes had elapsed, that he owed his life to the Kid’s rifle work. There had been times when lead sang close to him and he knew that but for the Kid spoiling any chance of a careful aim the lead would have been much closer.
Even as Rusty brought Johnny to safety there was another man moving in. It was Doc Leroy, his jacket pockets carrying his simple surgical tools and some bandages. At times like this, when going into a fight, Doc always went prepared for any wounds which might come his way. He knew Johnny was in need of his help and was going to do what he could.
Looking around, Rusty saw Doc coming and knew there would not be room for all three of them behind the rock. So without a word he hurdled from cover and went racing along through the gauntlet of fire again. Just ahead the side of the draw rose sheer and there was something of an overhang which would shield him from the men on that side, while a rocky ridge would give him shelter from the others. Rusty made it, diving the last few feet and landing in comparative safety, then rolled over to fire up the slope. He could see Mark, Dusty and the Kid, lifted his hand in a cheery wave and jerked it down as a bullet slapped the rock near to it.
Behind the rocks Doc Leroy was working fast. He cut the cloth away from around the wound, cleaned the blood as best he could and grunted. Johnny was still alive, which meant the bullet had not pierced anything vital. Doc knew much about the care and attention of gunshot wounds and he used every bit of skill he possessed now.
“How is he, Doc?” yelled the second of the new hands as he fired up the slope. “We’ll rip the heart out of those red devils if he dies.”
Doc, never too amiable while working, growled out a curse and ignored the question. Right now he was too busy, his thin, seemingly boneless hands working fast as he probed for the bullet. He found the hardness with the tip of the probe and with care opened the gripping end. The probe had been made on his special design for just such work and he felt the ends close on the bullet. Carefully he drew back. A moan from the now unconscious Johnny brought an end to the movement. Doc was sweating but cool enough. He waited until Johnny was still again, then withdrew the bullet. Not until then did Doc breathe a sigh of relief. Johnny was far from being safe yet, but he was better off now the lead was out of him.
Rusty Willis, in his place under the slope, was worried as to how Johnny was, but he knew better than bother Doc with questions at such a time. His eyes scanned the slope, picking out where Dusty, Mark and the Kid were and spotting the remaining “Apaches”. They were now exercising some caution and he could not get a clear shot at any of them.
One of the men above Rusty started to make a careful advance down the slope, sliding from cover to cover like a buck Apache. So good was he and so close the cover, that he had made a considerable distance before any of the men on the other slope saw him. The Kid was first. He saw a splash of color where no such color should be. It was only there for an instant, then gone, but that was long enough and more to alert a man as keen sighted as the Ysabel Kid. Now the Kid’s rifle was silent. He ignored the slap of a bullet into the rock close to him as he concentrated on that splash of color and what caused it.
The crawling man was almost on the overhang before he gave the Kid a chance to do anything. Even then there was little to aim at. There was enough for the Kid to send a bullet whistling at and the lead struck close. The man gave a yell, rolled himself over the rock and down the slope.
Rusty saw dirt, then small rocks trickling over the edge of the overhang, he saw a shape falling and dust got into his eyes, partially blinding him. The man fell, turned in the air, and lit down on his feet. His rifle crashed and the bullet sent chips splattering Rusty’s face. Rusty flung himself to one side, his Winchester held in his fight hand. The rifle crashed and the butt lashed back to hit hard into Rusty’s side. The bullet caught the man under the chin, angled up and burst out of the top of his head, sending the long black wig and headband flying.
Up until that moment Rusty and the other cowhands had believed they were fighting Apaches. Even the Kid did not know for sure they were not, although something had been nagging at his thoughts as he shot. Rusty saw the man reeling back, saw the wig go flying and the band of white
skin where the dye had not covered.
“A stinking renegade!”
So excited and annoyed was Rusty that he exposed himself and then flopped back as a bullet grazed his neck. He felt something hot running down under his collar even as he hit the ground.
“Renegades!” Dusty barked to Mark.
“I thought they handled the ambush bad for Apaches,” Mark called back. “We’d best show them!”
Not even a bad Apache was hated as was a renegade, a man who raided dressed as an Indian. The renegade could never feel safe in his disguise, for the hand of white and red men was against them. Only the most cold-blooded and murderous outlaw would adopt such tactics and to such a man no mercy was shown.
“I got it,” whooped the Kid, as he also watched the man reel back and lose his wig. “I knew there was something wrong. That bunch’re all wearing boots.”
The Kid had been worried by some nagging doubt from the start of the fight. The men looked like Apaches, from what he could see of them, yet some instinct, some stirring of his wild Comanche blood, insisted that these men were not Indians. Now he could see clearly what it was. The Apache would take many things from a white-eye as war trophy and for use. He would take a hat, a shirt, perhaps a set of pants, even underwear. He would take any kind of rifle and sing praises to his Gods all night if the rifle was a Winchester. He would take a revolver and a gunbelt to wear it on. He would not take a pair of boots. They were something he had no use for and would never wear. A white man’s boots were useless to the Apache, too noisy for his silent way of moving.
Pilbourne looked around him, saw the last man on his side of the draw crumple over and go down. Then he looked up and saw a larger cloud of dust was approaching. There was no doubt what the dust was caused by. It was the herd and with it rode reinforcements for these cowhands.
The Mormons, on the opposite slope, saw it, those who were able to see anything. That was all they needed to see and started to back away up the slope. Only two made it, passing over the slope fast, the others were still shapes on the ground or moving in their last throes, for from their cover only their heads showed and a hit was likely to prove fatal.
Dusty saw the men go and saw a danger in their going.
They’d lost out here and were running, but they might come on young Rin with the remuda. The boy alone would be a good target for the hate and the horses make up in loot for the herd which was safe from them.
“Lon!” Dusty barked. “Take out after Rin and the remuda!”
The Kid gave a wave and started to move back. It was lucky he was always cautious and did not expose himself any more than he needed. Even so, the damage was serious when it came.
Pilbourne found he’d made a basic and deadly dangerous mistake. The place he picked for the fight gave him real good cover, but there was only one way out of it. And covering that escape route were two men who had already showed they could call down their shots with accuracy. He was trapped, the only ways left out were surrender and a certain hanging or fight to the death and try to take as many of them as possible with him. With the wolf-savage hate and lust for killing which drove him on to the outlaw trails, Pilbourne picked the latter way. He saw that black-dressed boy who handled the rifle so well, saw him for an instant, brought up his rifle and took a fast shot.
Fast taken or not, the shot came as close to taking the Kid’s life as a man needed and caused more concern to the Kid than a wound would have. The Kid felt a sudden jarring shock and the rifle, the old yellow boy, was torn from his hands. He saw the gun hit the ground and dived forward, scooping it up in passing. Landing in the open, he rolled fast, felt lead strike just behind him and was in cover again.
One look was all the Kid needed to tell him the rifle was finished. The old yellow boy, one of the first of the model which came to be known as the 1866, had come to him just after the war when he first! joined Dusty Fog in his quest to bring back Bushrod Sheldon from Mexico. Since then the rifle had never left the Kid, had been in his saddle boot or his hands ready for use. He knew that rifle, knew how it threw at ranges beyond anything! the light load of the bullet was meant to be reliable at. Now it was gone, smashed by a bullet which had wrecked the breech mechanism.
The Kid might have been thankful the bullet wrecked his rifle instead of his body, but he was not. All too well the Kid knew the caliber of the men he would be matched against in the Tombstone Rifle Shoot. They were men who knew their rifles as he knew his, men capable of calling down their shots with an accuracy that the Kid would find hard to equal with a new weapon in his hands.
Cold rage gripped the Kid and it took all his self-control to prevent a wild rage-filled rush towards where Pilbourne was hidden. Then sanity came back and he knew that he must get after the remuda. Without his rifle he was of no use against the men in his defensive position and Dusty could far better deal with the man. So the Kid turned and went up the slope, went fast and keeping in cover, for he’d seen how well this renegade could shoot.
Passing over the ridge, the Kid gave a whistle and his white stallion loped back to him. He caught the saddlehorn and swung astride in a lithe Indian-like bound. Turning the white stallion, he headed along the rim over the draw to where he could get down to the bottom in safety and head after the horses. There was anger in his heart, anger and disappointment, for his chances of winning that magnificent “One of a Thousand” Winchester were well below the odds of three to one the bartender at the Bucket of Blood first started him.
The Kid found Rin three miles down the trail. The youngster had caught up with the fleeing horses and now had them under control. He was allowing them to graze and settle down and rode eagerly to where the Kid approached.
“Did we get ’em, Kid?” he whooped excitedly.
“Some of them, boy,” answered the Kid. “Why in hell didn’t you go around them like Dusty told you?”
“Shucks, it was quicker the way I come and they didn’t hit me.”
For a moment the Kid felt anger and almost knocked the boy from his saddle. Then the anger went. Rin was young, wild, reckless, but young. He’d sand to burn and that should never be held against any youngster. Johnny was hit bad but could just have easily have taken the lead in the normal course of the attack. It would do no good to blame Rin for it.
“That’s right,” he growled. “They didn’t hit you. But Dusty’s going to whale the tar out of you when he lays hands on you.”
Rin grinned. The prospect of a hiding did not worry him any. He’d been chapped, held across the wagon tail and had a pair of bull-hide chaps applied to his pants seat without yelling; that had been when he grew slack and nearly lost the remuda in a drive. He reckoned he could take another chapping for the risk he’d run by not following orders.
The Kid sat his big white for a moment, then came to his feet, standing on the saddle to scan the surrounding country. He could see no sign of the two fleeing renegades and guessed they would be headed for the border as fast as their horses carried them. They had seen their gang cut down by the guns of the Texas trail crew. They wanted only to get out of this country and would not bother the remuda.
“We going back to the herd, Kid?” Rin asked.
“Start the remuda back slow, boy,” answered the Kid. “I’m headed on to Tombstone. Tell Dusty I’ve gone to see if I can get another yellow boy.”
Without knowing what the Kid was doing, Dusty got down to the business of dislodging Pilbourne from behind the rocks. In this Dusty was acting in the manner of a trained lawman, not as a cowhand. There was a cold determination about the way Dusty flattened down behind a large rock and glanced at Mark. They had been in the same position before and not just the once.
Rusty and the other cowhand made their way up the slope in darting rushes and flattened down near to where Dusty and Mark crouched with their rifles. The cowhand lifted his head and called:
“Dusty, Doc says Johnny’ll live.”
“Keep down!” Dusty’s words cracked like a whip and we
re echoed by the flat crack of Pilbourne’s rifle.
The cowhand flattened down again, his Stetson spinning from his head, so close had the bullet come. A grin came to the man’s face and he turned to look across at Dusty, expecting to see an answering grin. There was none, only a cold hard and grim stare and a harsh:
“Keep your fool head down, this’s no kid’s game!”
Rusty moved fast, darting across the open space and flattening down by the other cowhand’s side.
“You do what Dusty says,” he warned.
“You in there!” Dusty backed out. “You behind the rocks. Throw out your guns and come on out with your hands raised.”
“Go to hell!”
Pilbourne screamed the words back and fired a fast shot in the direction of where Dusty and Mark knelt. He jerked the rifle back and forced bullets into the breech, waiting and wondering what the cowhands meant to do.
“This’s your last chance!” called Dusty.
The cowhand looked towards Rusty, surprised, and said:
“I once saw a company of Texas Rangers taking a bad wanted man. The ranger captain sounded just like Dusty.” There was a grim smile on Rusty’s face. “I was a deputy under him in Quiet Town just after the war. I tell you, Frank, no ranger captain could see the day when he can teach Dusty anything about handling something like this.”
Behind their rock Dusty and Mark studied the situation.
They thought as lawmen still, hard, tough and efficient lawmen. In the make-up of such men there was no taking foolish risks. They would face a man, even one in a position like this, alone, and chance being killed if they had to. Yet they would also take no chances and use the resources of all four men to take the killer now if the affair could be played that way.