by J. T. Edson
That left the third brave, and to the Kid’s way of thinking the most dangerous. Armed with a bow and showing every sign of being a master in its use, the brave tore nearer. He ignored the fate of his companions, concentrating on the Kid with awesome intensity and determination to kill. Tense and ready, the Kid saw the bow’s string released and the arrow spring towards him. Timing his move perfectly, he swung the Winchester and its barrel deflected the arrow’s shaft. A quick swivelling movement swung the rifle back into line slanting it up as the Kid prepared to leap aside and avoid being ridden down. He had no time to raise the rifle to his shoulder and fired from the hip. A flat-nosed .44 bullet drove in under the brave’s jaw and burst out of the top of his head. Darting aside, the Kid evaded the horse and its lifeless rider crashed almost at his feet.
So busy had the Kid been in handling his first trio of attackers that he did not notice the remaining pair of Sidewinder’s companions approaching. They came on foot, one carrying an Army Colt and the other wielding a war club. Firing on the run, the Colt’s user lacked the ability to aim accurately and missed. Before he could cock his revolver, he paid the penalty. Still held hip-high, the Kid’s rifle spat and its bullet tore into the Waw’ai’s left breast and tumbled him backwards.
The last brave charged in from the Kid’s right side, so close that there. would be no time to turn the rifle. Instead the Kid hurled his Winchester at the other’s head. Throwing up his left arm, the Waw’ai knocked the rifle aside and his other hand swung the war club at the Kid. The two pound flint head — six inches long, with a width of three inch at one end and tapering to two inches at the other, secured by green rawhide, which shrunk and dried almost to the consistency of iron, to a sixteen inch wooden shaft — whistled through the air. Swiftly the Kid twisted his body, bending it under the arc of the club’s head. While doing so, the Kid drew his bowie knife and swung a wicked backhand slash. Razor sharp steel bit into Waw’ai’s belly, laying it wide open. A scream left his lips, the war club dropping from his fingers and his hands clawed down at the terrible gash in his body. Staggering a few steps, the Waw’ai sank to his knees and fell forward, writhing, on his face.
A bullet tore over the Kid’s head and he flung himself forward in a rolling dive that carried him into cover. There had been no time to collect his rifle and he drew the old Dragoon as he landed. Peering cautiously around the rock behind which he landed, the Kid saw no sign of Sidewinder. Clearly the chief retained sufficient respect for his old enemy’s shooting ability to take no chances.
Rising, the Kid darted from cover to cover up the slope. He went fast but no shots came his way. Not for a moment did he think that Sidewinder had fled. While the chief might not relish a fight, he could not avoid one if he hoped to show his face among the Comanche again. Sidewinder and the last of his followers came to the treaty council in a desperate bid to regain their lost medicine and so must be willing to die trying. Sidewinder knew that and hid somewhere, hoping for a chance to finish the Kid. If he did so, there might be braves willing to rally to him, enough to ruin the council.
Coming to a halt on the slope, the Kid stood erect and looked around him.
‘No Father!’ he roared in Pehnane Comanche. ‘Come and fight, lame dog. This is no time to run as you did when we last met. Show yourself and I’ll kill you as my father killed Bitter Root.’
The vicious crack of the chief’s carbine came after the Kid’s words, every one of which had been spoken as a deadly insult. To call a name-warrior by the title he held as a child was bad enough, but using the name of a dead father offered an even greater insult.
‘He’s been hit!’ Mark Counter gasped and a rumble of sound rose from the other members of the watching crowd as the Kid spun around, dropping revolver and knife then crashing down to roll out of sight.
Thrusting himself from the bushes in which he had hidden. Sidewinder limped forward. A savage grin twisted the chief’s face as he advanced to where he last saw the Kid. In falling, the Kid went into a gash torn in the slope at some time by a heavy flood of water, but since grown over. Sidewinder might have hesitated to follow so dangerous an enemy into that kind of area — even in their youth the Kid had few equals at the art of concealment, silent movement and stalking — but the sight of weapons gave him heart. With his rifle lying back down the slope and the Colt and bowie knife in plain sight, the Kid had no weapons with which to defend himself.
Discarding his carbine for the better close-quarters handling qualities of the Army Colt he took from Salmon’s body. Sidewinder advanced down the gash’s side. He could see no sign of the Kid, yet felt sure that his bullet took effect. Possibly the other, badly wounded, had crawled into some cover and only needed finding to be finished off.
A hand came out from under a bush, took hold of Sidewinder’s good ankle and heaved at it. Sidewinder had never been a skilled player at Nanip’ka, Guess Over The Hill, where boys hid and the one from beyond the hill had to locate them. So he failed to see the Kid. With a yell, he tumbled backwards and his Colt fired a wild shot into the air. Like a flash the Kid lunged forward, meaning to land on the other’s body and clamp hands on his throat. Poor Nanip’ka player Sidewinder might be, but he could move fast. Constantly bearing the brunt of carrying him, his good leg had extra strength. Its foot rammed against the Kid’s body, halted his progress and hurled him aside. He landed rolling and Sidewinder sat up, lining the Colt. As a bullet cut the air over his head, the Kid caught up a rock the size of a baseball and snapped it in Sidewinder’s direction. His aim proved to be better than the chief’s for the rock caught Sidewinder in the face. However, the Kid knew he could not reach Sidewinder before the other recovered and going closer made him a larger target, Instead he rose and flung himself up the slope. Blood trickled down Sidewinder’s face but he did not let that interfere with his intention. It was kill or be killed now.
The Army Colt roared and the Kid felt lead slam into him, tearing through the fleshy part of his thigh. Exerting all his will, he flung himself forward and his right hand reached out. He felt the cold, comforting touch of the Dragoon’s walnut grips under his palm and closed his fingers around the butt. Already Sidewinder came up the slope, travelling fast despite his injured leg, determined to get in so close that he could not miss. Up came his Colt, lining towards the Kid.
Rolling over, the Kid brought up the Dragoon and held it cocked ready for use. An instant before Sidewinder felt sure of his aim, the Kid fired. Not for the first time the Kid found cause to be thankful for keeping that heavyweight, out-of-date handgun. The soft round lead ball struck with shocking force, hurling Sidewinder backwards even though it only struck him in the shoulder. Before the chief recovered, or had a chance to, the Kid sat up, took careful aim and sent a second bullet into the other’s chest.
Rising, the Kid stood for a moment then limped to where his knife lay. He took up the big weapon and approached Sidewinder. Bending down, the Kid gripped the dead chief’s hair and dragged his head up from the ground. Around came the knife, its blade ready to bite into flesh and remove the scalp. The fighting madness ebbed slowly away and his left hand loosed its grip of the hair. There at his feet lay his old enemy. Loud Voice and Comes For Food, the friends who died saving the Kid’s life, had been avenged at last. With Sidewinder dead, the treaty could be signed. The old days had gone for ever and the Kid could not take the scalp.
Slowly the Kid turned. Walking to where his Colt lay, dropped when he took up the knife to scalp his dead enemy, lie picked it up and holstered it. Sheathing the bowie knife, he limped up the slope and looked at the treaty council.
‘Well,’ he mused as his friends ran up the slope towards him ‘We’ve done it now. I sure hope that it’s the right thing now it’s done.
THE END
THE QUEST FOR BOWIE’S BLADE BY J. T. EDSON
The task seemed simple enough to the Ysabel Kid. All he had to do was ride into Mexico, find the man who had killed James Bowie at the Alamo and ask him to return Bow
ie’s legendary knife to its rightful owners. Nothing simpler — or so the Kid thought. . . .
But before the job was through he had locked horns with some mighty bad hombres. Men like Manos Grande, the fearsome Yaqui war chief; Silk, a dude but also a lightning fast killer; and Juan Eschuchador, as mean a bandido as ever slit a throat. And then there were the women, real tough ladies like Belle Boyd, the rebel spy working for the U.S. Secret Service or Belle Starr, the outlaw — but at least they were on the Kid’s side — or were they?
552 09444 7 30p
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SUDDEN - THE LAW O’ THE LARIAT BY OLIVER STRANGE
The word had filtered out that Sudden was dead — and there was no one around to contradict it. Men who had cringed before, swaggered now; others boasted of their encounters with Sudden, the coward.
Only one man stayed quiet: a tall, saturnine fellow wearing two guns tied low. When he heard the rumours, he gave a thin smile; and when someone asked him who he was, he said shortly: ‘James Green.’ James Green — alias Sudden!
0 552 09118 9 35p
SUDDEN - TROUBLESHOOTER BY FREDERICK H. CHRISTLAN, based upon characters created by Oliver Strange
Lafe Gunnison had passed the word to the homesteaders — quit stealing cattle or take the consequences! Up in the Mesquites, the nesters reacted the only way they knew: they told Gunnison he was a liar and if he showed up in their neck of the woods he’d wind up with a tombstone over his head.
It was trouble — big trouble — all it needed was one small spark to start a war to the death. Only one man could stop it. One man — backed by his courage and the guns he wore. A man with a past, scouring the West for two killers — a man called — Sudden.
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Scanned and proofed by Amigo da Onça