by J. T. Edson
“Reckon I could bounce a couple in on him, Dusty?” Mark asked.
“Make a try if you like,” Dusty replied.
Mark aimed carefully, while Dusty and Rusty raised their own rifles ready to fire and hold Pilbourne down if he tried to retaliate. Mark fired, trying to send his bullet bouncing from the rock face and down on to the hidden man. The bullet flattened and left a leaden blotch on the wall. It did no damage. Nor did the next Mark threw and the big blond knew there was no chance of sending a ricochet in and dislodging the man.
“No go,” said Dusty.
Behind the rock Pilbourne eased himself into a position where he hoped he would be able to shoot at the four men. His eyes went to the sky, it was gone noon and he could hold out until dark. Then there might be a chance to escape. He was alone and would take his chances in the dark against men who would hesitate to shoot for fear of hitting their friends.
The herd was moving along the draw now, the bed wagon already there and with Johnny loaded into it. Shorthanded as they were, the trail crew could not leave the cattle to see if they could help Dusty and the others. Pilbourne twisted around and got himself into a position where he could see and shoot down at the hands.
“Pull back or I’ll cut down the riders!” he yelled.
Now there was a real urgent need to dislodge, either capture or kill the man or have their friends run the gauntlet of bullets from the rifle of a man who had proved he could call down his shots with some skill.
“Dusty!” Mark said suddenly. “Mind that time we were hunting cougar with your Cousin Betty? Just before we made that drive to Mulrooney?”
Dusty looked at his big friend and was about to growl out an angry demand as to the reason for the question. Then he recalled which hunt Mark meant, although it was far from the only hunt they’d had with Betty Hardin.
“Sure, I remember,” he answered. “The dogs treed that ole cat and we couldn’t see it. Then Betty saw the tip of its tail hanging down from the branches and she lined at—”
The words came to a halt as Dusty saw what Mark was getting at. From the edge of the rocks something black showed. It took Dusty just a bare split second to realize what that something was. The man behind the rock had moved, settled down to a safe shooting position where he could fire down on the trail below and in doing so was exposing the toe of one boot.
“You or me?” Dusty asked, without looking at Mark.
“My rifle likely hold closer,” Mark replied. “But you’re the better shot.”
Dusty settled down and lined his carbine. It was a real tribute coming from Mark, who was a better than fair shot with the rifle. Mark knew that there was only one man living who might possibly equal the Kid in the skilled aiming of a long gun, and that man was Dusty Fog. The toe of the boot offered small enough target in all account and Mark knew there would be only the one shot at it.
“This’s your last chance!” Dusty barked, even then not willing to kill the man if there was a chance of forcing him to surrender. “Come out or die.”
Pilbourne had heard that kind of tone. It was a tough lawman speaking to a dangerous killer and meant every word said. He could come out and risk a trial, or he could force his play to the bitter end.
“I’ll drop the point man!” he roared. “You make—”
The carbine lined, there was no time to ask again. Dusty knew without needing to look that Mark’s rifle was lifted and ready to take up the second card of the deal. It was only left to Dusty to haul the ace from the hole and bring off the showdown, Dusty and that twenty inch barreled Winchester carbine which the Kid always scoffed at as being grossly inaccurate at over ten feet.
The carbine spat and suddenly Pilbourne felt something strike his toes, sending agony through him, bringing a scream of pain from his lips as he reared up. The scream was cut off abruptly by the bark of Mark’s rifle and the bullet it spewed out right straight into the up-jerking head. Pilbourne never knew what hit him; he spun, crashed into the wall behind him and went down.
Dusty, Mark and Rusty ran forward, but they came with their rifles held ready for instant use. They came from both sides, moving in fast towards where the killer was sprawled, arms thrown out and rifle laying well clear of him. If he had been holding the rifle they would have shot again, for that was how they were trained, never to trust a man who held a gun.
The cowhand watched the three men and wondered how he could have ridden with them for the past days without knowing all their traits. Rusty was acting like Dusty and Mark, acting like a well-trained lawman in this moment. The cowhand did not know of the hard lessons Dusty forced home on Rusty while they wore law badges in Quiet Town. Rusty had never forgotten those hard, firm rules Dusty laid down for dealing with a dangerous killer.
“He’s cashed,” Dusty said. “Cut down to the trail and ask Stone to hold the herd clear of the draw and get a couple of the boys back here.”
Rusty went fast and Mark turned up the slope to collect the horses. Dusty looked down at the dead man’s boot; the bullet had torn the sole badly and the toes were a bloody mess. The stitching of the upper was split and Dusty saw something white. He bent forward and extracted a sheet of paper the man had kept concealed in a hideout of a kind Dusty knew. Unfolding the paper, Dusty looked down the writing and read King Rambeau’s death warrant signed by the saloon keeper himself.
Stone Hart came up the slope as the herd came clear of the draw. He saw Dusty and Mark standing side by side, their faces grim and cold.
“Rambeau’s men?” he asked.
“Sure, read this,” Dusty replied.
Stone read the message and nodded grimly at the end. “How’ll you handle it?”
“Ride on to Tombstone now,” Dusty answered. “You’re in the clear and likely be in tomorrow around noon. Mark and I’ll deliver this, us and Lon.”
“Lon’s already gone,” Stone drawled. “He doesn’t know anything about this. Sent word with Rin he’s gone to buy him a new Model ’66.”
“We’ll likely find him,” Dusty said gently, but there was no gentleness in his eyes. “Haul the bodies someplace and leave them for John Behan to look over—happens he wants to. They’re renegades and there might be posters on them.” Stone watched Dusty and Mark mount their big horses. “I could spare Rusty and Doc,” he said. “Rambeau’s friendly with the Earp boys.”
“I wouldn’t spit in Wyatt’s face if it was on fire,” Dusty drawled as he turned the big paint stallion. “But I wouldn’t see him backing a play like Rambeau just made.”
“Nor me,” agreed Mark, reining his bloodbay around. “Not with certain proof like we’ve got against Rambeau. No sir, Stone, it wouldn’t be Earp’s play at all.”
Thirteen – King Rambeau’s Mistakes
Cindy Alban sat in the buggy, her arm around Miles Hamish’s waist as he handled the reins. They’d been on a picnic and had completely forgotten how the time was flying So now they headed slowly towards the distant lights of Tombstone not talking, each thinking. There was no show for them that night, for they were taking their last chance to relax before the opening of the Fair in two days’ time.
The girl had a black Stetson hat on her head and wore a light dress under her coat. The night was not too cold and yet there was a bite in the air which made Hamish pleased that he’d brought his cloak with him. He swung it around his and the girl’s shoulders, the white silk lining showing briefly in the night.
“Paula will be worrying,” Cindy finally remarked. “I hope she doesn’t send that young Earp boy out to look for us. This is the first time we’ve managed to throw him off and have a few moments alone.”
“It’s more than a few moments we’ve had,” Hamish replied. “We went out at noon and it’s dark now. Young Earp has got it bad where you’re concerned.”
“I manage to hold him off,” laughed Cindy.
Warren Earp, youngest of the brothers, had been one of Cindy’s most constant attendants over the last few days. The girl liked him, found hi
s boastings of travels to far-off cities like Sacramento or Saint Louis amusing. However, she did not care to have him around all the time as he tried to be. So it had been with something like relief that she slipped out of town and away from him for the picnic. He would undoubtedly be waiting at the boarding house, but she was sure he would now see he had no chance at all.
“I don’t like having you out here after dark, Cindy.”
“There’s no danger this close to town,” she answered, “Howdy, Miss Cindy.”
Hamish gave a startled exclamation and twisted around with his hand fanning towards his coat, where he had a shoulder holstered Merwin & Hulbert pocket revolver. The big white stallion had made no sound as it came up behind them and the first warning they’d been given was when the Ysabel Kid spoke. He’d seen them from a distance just before dark and only just caught up with them.
“Lon!” Cindy gasped.
Hamish brought his hand from under his coat and a smile came to his face, for he now knew that the Ysabel Kid was no rival. “I nearly shot you,” he said.
“Folks’re always doing that,” came the Kid’s drawling reply. “Must be something about me that makes ’em.”
“My grandfather was a United States Customs Officer,” Hamish answered, remembering stories he’d heard about the Kid’s past. “That must be why—”
“Shucks, fancy admitting that afore a lady,” chided the Kid. “Don’t you hold it against him, Miss Cindy, he couldn’t help it.”
“I suppose not,” Cindy replied. “And I could hardly hold it against Miles. You see, my father was head of the Border Patrol in Texas for a time after the War.”
The Kid started to rein back his horse. “I knowed there was something about you pair that I didn’t like.”
The girl laughed and the Kid rode alongside the buggy again. The days when he rode as a border smuggler were long past, but his friends often teased him about them and he was never ashamed of the wild nights when he and his father ran contraband over the border.
For her part, Cindy was delighted that Miles Hamish was acting as he did. He was less stuffy and superior now and acting friendly with the Kid. It was at that moment the girl remembered what had happened to take the Kid from town.
“Where’s the herd, Loncey?”
“Back there a piece. I came on ahead so I could hear you sigh.”
The girl laughed and looked towards him, seeing that the big white stallion had covered a considerable amount of miles.
“Did you have any trouble bringing the herd this far?”
“Nope, not what I’d call real trouble.”
For the rest of the ride Cindy tried to get the Kid to tell her some of the exciting things she was sure had happened. For all that, the Kid’s version would have her believe the herd left Vance Brownlow’s place and came through without anything worth talking about happening.
They reached the outskirts of Tombstone and made their way through the quiet backstreets to the boarding house. At Cindy’s suggestion, the Kid left his leg-weary white stallion in an empty stall of the boarding house stables. Then with the white and the buggy team cared for the three walked towards the house.
The owner of the boarding house came to answer Hamish’s knock. She looked out and her smile broadened as she looked at the girl, then faded a trifle at the sight of the unshaven, trail dusty young Texas cowhand who was with her.
“That’s my friend, Loncey Dalton Ysabel,” the girl remarked. “Can he wash up and tidy up in Miles’ room, please?” Cindy was the woman’s favorite and could do no wrong. So the permission was willingly given and the Kid went with Hamish up the stairs. The woman stood looking at Cindy with a smile playing on her lips. The girl looked radiantly happy, her cheeks showing a touch of color which was not entirely due to the Arizona sun.
“This Arizona climate seems to agree with you,” she replied. “Miles is from New England, Warren Earp’s from Iowa and the Kid’s from Texas.”
The Kid managed to get most of the dust from his clothes before he came down and found Cindy in the living room entertaining young Warren Earp. The youngest of the Earp brothers was a good-looking young man who wore cowhand dress and had a low-tied Colt holstered at his side. He was just removing the gunbelt when the Kid entered the room and frowned.
“Warren,” Cindy said, leading him forward. “This is my friend, the Ysabel Kid.”
Young Earp nodded a greeting and gave the Kid a broad grin. Doc Holliday was something of a hero to Warren Earp and from the deadly ex-dentist Warren had heard much about the Kid.
“Howdy, Kid,” he greeted, then remembered the news which all Tombstone was awaiting. “Say, they were offering five to one that you didn’t get that herd through Apache country.”
“They were wrong,” drawled the Kid. “She’s got through and’ll be here in a couple of days.”
“Yowee, the men and old Doc’s won us some money to bet on Brother Wyatt in the shooting matches.”
Cindy felt relieved. She knew there was little love lost between the Earps and the cowhands and did not want trouble in the boarding house. Now it appeared the two young men were going to be friendly.
There was a knock on the outside door and the girl excused herself. She left the room, went along the passage and opened the door. A ragged Mexican boy stood outside, a piece of paper in his hand.
“For Senora Alban,” he said.
The girl took the note, told the boy to come in while she found a coin to pay him. Then after seeing the boy depart she closed the door and opened out the paper. Her eyes went to the writing, read the first line and a hot flush came to her cheeks. The contents of the letter were vile, insulting in the worst degree that could be spawned and poured out by King Rambeau’s mind.
That was the moment when the saloon-keeper’s plan started to go wrong. His first mistake was in his judgment of Cindy Alban’s character. The girl might allow herself to be saved from the villain when on the stage, but off it she was completely self-reliant. She was burning with a mixture of shame and anger at the message and determined to go along to Rambeau’s saloon and shame him before the customers. She knew the ingrown chivalry of the Western men and knew that Rambeau’s letter would be enough to see him run from Tombstone.
That was Rambeau’s first mistake. He’d expected the girl to run to Miles Hamish with the letter. The two men outside the house were waiting for the young actor to come out, their orders to beat and mark him for life.
Cindy pulled her Stetson on, then she took Hamish’s cloak from the hall stand and flipped it across her shoulders. Once the sun went down there often came a bit of cold in the air and she wanted the cloak, although her anger was warming her. She opened the door, the light in the hall behind her as she went out, the white silk lining of the cloak swinging out into view of the two men who stood by the gate. Miles Hamish was coming down the stairs from his room as the girl went out. He saw her closing the door and opened his mouth to call out.
In the darkness the two gunmen waited by the garden gate and there Rambeau’s second mistake began. Neither of the men intended to risk a fist fight with the young actor, for they’d seen him bounce a drunken cowhand clear through the doors of the Bon Ton Theater and were not meaning to tangle with him. The end product would be the same. The rest of the show were attending some function in town and the two gunmen expected the girl to come running out when she heard the sounds of Hamish being worked over. Their orders were to grab Cindy and take her to a cabin on the edge of Tombstone, where Rambeau would collect her.
One of the gunmen lifted his gun as he saw the shape come through the door. He knew that cloak and the Stetson hid any sign of Cindy’s hair from his view. He brought up the Colt and fired, saw the shape at the door stagger and went through the gate.
Then hell broke loose.
Hamish heard the shot, saw the door panel split as a bullet came through and heard a shrill scream of pain. Then he was hurling down the stairs and towards the door, and even as he tore i
t open he heard a crash of glass from the next room.
The Ysabel Kid was pacing the room. He was never really at home in such a place as this boarding house. He passed the window and through a slit in the curtains saw two shapes by the garden gate. He gave it no thought and crossed to the door of the room, glanced at Cindy as she was putting the cloak on. Warren Earp was seated, relaxed and at home, watching the cat-like way the Kid prowled the room. He opened his mouth to say something as the Kid went to the window again. Then he saw the Kid tense, heard the shot and started to come to his feet.
The Kid brought both hands in front of his face and went straight through the window, carrying sash and glass with him in passing. He hit the ground outside, making havoc among the owner’s flower bed. His old Dragoon Colt was gripped in his hand as he saw one of the two men running forward and heard the startled curse as the man saw it was Cindy and not Hamish he’d shot.
Even as the Kid started to bring up his Dragoon he saw the house door burst open and Miles Hamish hurl out. Full on to the gunman, clearing the girl’s weakly moving body, hurled the young actor. The revolver crashed once wildly, sending the bullet into the ground, then the gunman was smashed down with a savage fighting fury on him, battering him with hard fists.
The second gunman had seen the Kid come through the window and his Colt was listed, but against the darkness of the house the black clothing worked as a cloak of invisibility and nothing of the Kid showed as he tensed, ready to move in and take the gunman.
The gunman could see nothing but a whirling tangle as Miles Hamish and his companion fought. He could not risk a shot at them. Then he saw a second shape at the window and his Colt crashed. Young Warren Earp had leapt to the window, making a basic mistake; his gun was in his hand ready, but the bullet which came from the night taught him a lesson. He spun around, his shirt torn wide open and a bloody gash appearing on the flesh of his shoulder. With a yell of pain the young man spun around, back against the wall and out of sight.
The Kid was halfway across the garden before the gunman saw him. The man began his turn, but flame blossomed from the barrel of the old Dragoon even before any action could be taken. The gunman let out a scream of pain as the bullet caught him high in the shoulder, smashing flesh and bone as only a round, soft lead ball powered by a full forty grain charge of prime Du Pont powder could. The gunman was thrown backwards, hit the ground and lay screaming in agony, his arm almost torn from his body.