by J. T. Edson
By now the owner of the house and other people from along the street were coming, carrying lamps and lighting up a scene they would never forget. Cindy was holding her shoulder, crouched against the door, with her face white as she stared at Miles Hamish, who knelt beside the man who shot her and smashed his head brutally on to the hard soil of the path.
The Kid came forward, his Dragoon in his hands, the hammer drawn back under his thumb. “‘Get off him, friend,” said his voice, the growling snarl of a Comanche Dog Soldier taking his lodge oath.
Miles Hamish looked up with unseeing eyes. His left hand knotted into the man’s hair, his right came across to smash knuckled into the bloody face. The head crashed on to the path with a satisfactory thud and Hamish gripped the head once more.
The Kid had no intention of stopping Hamish killing the man, that was for sure. To him it was nothing that did not require doing and the young actor had the right to do it. The other people were gathering around fast, some looking down at the badly wounded gunman in the street, others crowding into the garden, where the boarding house owner was already bending over Cindy.
Weakly the girl forced herself up and gasped, “Miles! Miles, stop it!”
Possibly there was not another thing in the world which could have stopped the young actor’s blind and savage rage. He heard the voice and released the man’s head, allowing it to drop back to the path. Then, rising, he turned and went to Cindy, dropping on his knees beside her.
The girl was hit high in the shoulder; it was a painful and nasty wound, but she would live. Her eyes were open, full of pain and not a touch of pride in the way Miles went to save her. The kneeling woman, by Cindy’s side, looked at the neighbors who were running up the path and took command of the situation.
“Miles, carry Cindy inside and watch her shoulder,” she snapped. “Mrs. O’Neil, would you be so kind as to go for the doctor?”
The Ysabel Kid stood in the garden for a moment, then something white caught his eye. He stepped forward and picked up the note which brought Cindy through the door. The people who were close at hand saw him open it and glance at the writing in the light of the lamp. Then they saw the change which came over his face. No longer was it the innocent, handsome, yet somewhat babyish face of the Ysabel Kid. Now it was the war-mask of a Comanche looking for an enemy.
Warren Earp was by the door, holding his bloody flesh wound. He saw the Kid crumple the paper and asked, “Who were they, Kid?”
“Rambeau’s men,” the Kid answered and went to where men were gathered around his victim in the street. There was no chance of questioning the other man, he was unconscious and would stay that way for some time. The man the Kid shot was conscious, though only just, and he was in agony. The Kid shoved by the watching men and bent down. He knotted his fist into the man’s shirt and hauled him into a sitting position, bringing a scream from him. “Who sent you?”
The gunman screamed again and gasped out, “Rambeau!” For a moment the Kid stood holding the wounded, screaming gunman with his left hand, right curled around the butt of the old Dragoon Colt. There were big men in the crowd, tough men, but not one of them would have dared to interfere. Go up against a she-bear with new-born cubs, go into a cave where a scared cougar was in hiding; but go against the Ysabel Kid at this moment and the other two would seem like nothing.
Dropping the man’s shirt and allowing him to fall back to the ground, the Kid turned. The man was a cheap gunman, just a trigger to be pulled. His arm would never be of use to him again. He had been punished enough. It was the man behind the trigger who must pay.
Turning on his heel, the Kid glanced towards the house and to where Warren Earp was pushing through the onlookers.
“They were doing it for Rambeau,” said the Kid gently, yet there was no gentleness in his tone.
“Can I help you?” asked the youngest Earp.
“Get your shoulder seen to, Warren. I’ll tend to Rambeau.” Before Warren Earp could open his mouth to either object or warn the Kid that Rambeau had several men at his place, it was too late. The Kid was walking along the once quiet, now disturbed street, making for the King Saloon, where he was going to kill a man or die in the trying.
The shooting brought Virgil Earp, but he came from the other direction and so missed the Kid. From his younger brother he learned of what happened and looked along the street to where the Kid was already out of sight. A man came from the house with word that Cindy had fainted but was in no serious danger. Virgil Earp stood looking at his brother’s wound and a hard, grim look came to his face.
“I thought we’d taught you better,” he said. “Coming in front of a window with a light behind you. Say—Wyatt, Morgan, Bat Masterson and Doc Holliday are at Rambeau’s place.”
“We’d best get down there, they might side Rambeau,” Warren answered.
“I’ll go,” Virgil snapped. “You stay here, get that shoulder tended to, then move those two gunmen down to the jail.”
Even as he turned, Virgil Earp knew he would be too late. One thing was sure, no matter which way this thing went, King Rambeau was done in Tombstone. It would do the Law and Order Party no good to be friendly with the man who caused the shooting of Cindy Alban, a favorite of the Bon Ton Theater and darling of every man in the wild and sprawling town.
The King Saloon was booming open. Rambeau moved through the crowd, greeted his friends, or those who were in such a position as to make it worthwhile to appear friendly.
The batwing doors of the saloon opened and Rambeau felt a sudden cold and raw ache of fear biting into him. This was yet another mistake he’d made. He had not known the Ysabel Kid was in town. In that moment Rambeau knew that his plan had gone wrong, although the noise of the four-piece band, laughter, sounds of his place, had drowned down the shots.
“Rambeau!” the Kid’s voice cut across the room. “It didn’t work, you lousy, no-good yellow rat.”
The first word came in a slight lull of the noise and with each succeeding word the silence grew. The roulette wheel clicked unheeded to a halt, the laughter and curses at the vingt-un table ended, the band trailed off to a discordant chord and died away.
Rambeau knew what had happened, knew that his plan was wrong, knew it from the slip of paper in the hand of the Ysabel Kid. He was near to the Earp brothers’ table and threw them a look, but so far Wyatt was not taking cards, was sitting fast until he knew what was wrong and where public opinion lay before cutting in.
“What’s eating you?” Rambeau asked, knowing his men were moving in ready to help him.
“Your boys shot Miss Alban, reckon it might have been a mistake, but they shot her.”
The words carried to every man in the crowd and the silence was more deeply ominous than ever before. Rambeau could feel the soft, cold hand of death on him and knew he must kill the Kid before too much could be said. There was enough on that sheet of paper to hang him and he knew it. His eyes went across the room to where his last two gunmen were moving through the crowd, making to where they could flank and side him.
The gunmen moved forward, then a foot came up, across the gap between the two tables they were passing. They halted, eyes going to the leg which was so clearly blocking their passage. Then they looked along it, up by the gambler’s coat from under which showed the butt of a shot-pistol, up to the sallow face of Doc Holliday. The thin killer’s lips drew back in a grin and he shook his head gently.
“That’s private, boys. Let’s keep it that way.”
Rambeau saw what had happened to his gunmen, saw it and knew they were out of the game unless they fixed to tie in with Doc Holliday. He knew, however, the rest of the saloon workers would back him, thinking they were tying in on a matter for the Syndicate. The odds were good, the crowd moving back and allowing his own men to come forward and make a half-circle behind him. They were not professional gunmen, all worked in some capacity in the saloon, but they could all use their guns and no one man could stand against them.
W
yatt Earp shoved back his chair and came to his feet; with two brothers, the tall, derby hatted, Eastern dressed Bat Masterson and Rambeau’s men backing him he ought to be able to stop the Ysabel Kid from causing trouble. It would be something of a feather in his cap if he could.
“You’d best go out to Mrs. Satterlee’s boarding house, Earp,” the Kid spoke evenly. “Warren took a bullet in the shoulder in the shooting.”
One of the few good points any Texan was willing to concede about the Earp brothers was their loyalty to the family. Cut one Earp and all the brothers bled. Morgan Earp was now on his feet by his brother’s side.
“What’re you meaning, Kid?” he asked.
“Rambeau here sent two men to wait outside where Cindy Alban is living. He sent her this note, thought either Miles Hamish or me would get shown it and come out to be killed. Only Cindy didn’t show it us. She put Miles’ cloak on and started to come down here, reckon she aimed to face this stinking rat down and show him for what he is—only she didn’t make it. One of them shot her as she came through the door.”
There was a rumble of anger at the Kid’s words. His left hand lifted and he threw the paper towards the Earps. Morgan caught it but did not open it, he was more concerned about his brother.
“What about Warren?”
“Like I said, he caught a bullet from one of Rambeau’s men.”
“Is that true, Rambeau?” Morgan growled.
“I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”
Rambeau could feel the touch of the hold-out and the stubby Remington Double Derringer. It was his chance to finish the Kid before he could say any more. His hand twitched and he was about to press the spring to send the grip of the little gun into his waiting palm. The saloon workers would back him even now if he moved fast.
The batwing doors of the saloon opened and two men stepped in. Two Texan men, one tall, one short, but both wearing two guns and both alike in their cold and deadly menace as they flanked the Ysabel Kid.
“We got your hired men, Rambeau,” said Dusty Fog. “You played the wrong card when you wrote out that agreement.”
“He’s mine, Dusty,” warned the Kid.
It was at that moment Rambeau found he stood alone. The saloon workers were not gunmen, but they knew who these two men were. This was the small Texan who had beaten Iowa Parsons to the shot and the big Texan who, by all accounts, had brought his gun clear of leather before Rambeau’s best gun, top hired killer of the Syndicate, cleared leather.
Rambeau felt the sweat run down his face. The Earp brothers were walking out of the saloon, going to see how badly Warren was hurt. Bat Masterson and Doc Holliday were still here, but both showed they’d no intention of siding with him. It now all stood or fell on him. He was done and there was nothing but a rope before him unless he could kill the Ysabel Kid.
“Three to one?” he asked, fighting wildly for a chance.
Dusty Fog turned and walked to one side, halting with his hands resting on the top of the nearby vingt-un table. Mark Counter swung away, also presenting his back as he went and sat with Bat Masterson, not looking around and in no position to bring rapid aid to his friend. At the same moment the saloon workers faded back. Now they knew this was no Syndicate matter and Rambeau stood alone in it.
“One to one, start when you like,” drawled the Ysabel Kid.
Rambeau pressed the spring catch of the holdout, felt the Derringer flick down and into his hand. He started to bring the weapon up in a fast move even as the Kid twisted his hand palm out to lift clear the old Dragoon. Then Rambeau hesitated, the short barreled hide-out gun lining. Was he aiming at the Kid, could he be sure of a hit? The thoughts raced through his mind in that flickering second between the Kid gripping the old Dragoon and bringing it out to line. Only a brief time did the man hesitate—but it was long enough.
Never, by the wildest stretch of imagination could the Ysabel Kid claim he was fast with a gun. It took him all of a second, starting from empty hand and ending with lead flying, for him to make his draw and a second was a whole lot too long at a time like this.
The old Dragoon came up even as Rambeau hesitated, trying to decide if the Derringer was lined. Flame lashed from the old Colt in the Kid’s hand, there was no hesitation about the heavy .44 ball and went backwards, arms flailing, into the table behind it, fell on to it, rolled off and to the floor.
There was not a sound through the saloon as all eyes went to King Rambeau, who had just made his final mistake.
The batwing doors opened and Virgil Earp stepped in. He came quietly and without hurry, but he came with his hands held well clear of his belt. A man did not take chances when dealing with a situation such as had been enacted in the King Saloon. The Ysabel Kid was too fast to take any chances with when he’d just dropped a man and might suspect anyone who came behind him.
The Kid turned, holstering his Colt as a sign of his good faith and Virgil Earp felt relieved. The Texas memory of Kansas towns did not tend to give any son of the Lone Star State trust in any man who bore the name of Earp. Virgil stepped forward with a nod towards Rambeau’s body and the crowd saw there would be nothing more happen.
“You got him, Kid,” he said. “Miss Alban’s all right. She’ll live, be off the stage for a time, but she’ll live.”
“You’d best take a look at this,” replied the Kid and handed over the note Rambeau sent to Cindy.
Dusty and Mark were by their friend now and from the pocket of his shirt Dusty took a second sheet of paper. “You’d best take this while you’re at it.”
Earp read the two notes and the crowd moved forward, trying to hear everything that was said. Slowly Virgil Earp looked up after he read the two notes. One he could understand, the one which brought the end to Rambeau’s life at the hands of the Ysabel Kid. The other puzzled him and he asked about it.
“I took it from one of the gang of renegades who hit at the herd some ways back, at that draw,” Dusty explained. “Reckon you’ll find it’s in Rambeau’s hand if you take a look in his office.”
The story of the drive came out, bringing whispered remarks of admiration from the crowd. The fight at the draw was glossed over, but there was an angry rumble at the Kid’s old yellow rifle. Every man in the saloon knew that the Kid was one of the top favorites in the shooting, or had been. His chances of coming anywhere with his old, tried and trusted rifle bust were small.
The problem was worrying the Kid and Mark Counter moved forward from the crowd. They stood looking at each other for a moment, not noticing Doc Holliday stood close behind them, listening to every word.
“You’ve used my Model ’73,” Mark said quietly.
The Kid nodded in agreement. He’d used Mark’s rifle on more than one occasion, but that did not give him the knowledge he would need of its ways to enable him to win the Rifle Match.
“Happen I could take it out of town for a couple of days, with plenty of bullets, I might learn how it fires in time.”
“That’d be easy arranged.”
“It’d cost more money than I’ve got to spare.”
Mark dipped his hand into his pocket and grinned wryly. “I near on spent out myself.”
Holliday turned back to look around the room. His eyes fell on the roulette table, where the dealer was idly spinning the wheel ready to start business once more when the crowd returned. Crossing the room, Holliday removed his wallet and tossed a pile of notes on the table, landing them casually on the seven. The dealer looked up and the cold eyes of the killer brought an uncomfortable and uneasy chill to him.
“Your boss caused the Kid’s rifle to be bust,” said Holliday. “Reckon it’s only right he helps make up for it. I’m betting one hundred and fifty dollars to help him.”
The dealer grinned. He’d got ten dollars riding on the Ysabel Kid’s rifle skill and hoped Doc Holliday called his guess right.
With a practiced flick of the wrist he started the wheel spinning with one hand, the other going to the small m
arble ball. Then Holliday spoke, his voice mild, gentle and yet cold and freezing as the bite of a Texas blue norther storm.
“We don’t need to bother with that—now do we?”
Slowly the dealer’s eyes went to Holliday’s face, then to the thin hand as it hovered the butt of the shot pistol. He let the ball rest on top of the wheel spindle and his tongue tip flickered across his lips.
“No sur, Doc, I don’t reckon we do. Seven’s the winner.”
The Ysabel Kid and Mark Counter were still wondering how they could get around the money problem and if Frank Leslie or Texas John Slaughter could help them lay in a supply of bullets.
“Kid,” the word brought them both around to face Doc Holliday. “Here, take this. See that fat jasper playing vingt-un? Go tell him I said for him to sell you anything you want.”
The Kid accepted the money, asking no questions. He knew Doc Holliday slightly and wondered what made the killer give him a pile of notes. Then he glanced to the vingt-un table and the fat, prosperous looking townsman who was playing. The crowd were rapidly getting back to the interrupted pleasures now.
“Reckon he’ll do it, Doc?” asked the Kid.
Doc Holliday grinned. “I reckon he will. Just tell him I saw him in Bignose Kate’s last week, while his wife was on vacation.”
So it was that at dawn the following morning the Ysabel Kid rode out of Tombstone with Mark Counter’s Model 1873 Winchester, the packhorse, his white stallion and over a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of cartridges. He had the first five days of the fair and all the Sunday to learn enough about the center fire rifle to let him enter the Rifle Match and win that magnificent “One in a Thousand” Winchester.