The Fortune Hunters

by J. T. Edson

  The three big stallions stood to one side. Nigger, the Kid’s white stallion, was a short way from the other two. Like its master, the white had many wild traits and its alertness had been put to good use by the Kid in the days when he ran contraband with his father along the Rio Grande. Always the big stallion stayed watchful, ready to give warning of the scent, sight or sound of approaching human beings.

  Such a scent came to the horse’s nostrils, faintly, but drawing closer and taking a pattern Nigger recognised. Fear has its own smell, so has a hunting creature’s body odour. A hunting human being crept nearer and nearer, its scent carried by the wind to the white’s nostrils.

  Throwing back its head, the white snorted, looking to where the scent originated. The Kid spun around fast, glancing first at the horse, then in the direction it gazed. A bush some fifty yards away shook slightly, most people would have overlooked its movement as being caused by the wind. Not the Kid. He knew the bush moved without the aid of the wind.

  ‘Look out, Mark!’ he yelled, bringing up his rifle as he shouted the warning and firing as the last word left his mouth.

  Three times the rifle crashed, its lever looking like a blur as he flipped it open and closed. Although the Kid spaced his shots along the bush, a spurt of flame licked out from it. An instant later, his third shot struck something. A rifle flew into the air from the bushes and he heard a startled yell.

  Twisting around, the Kid looked to the edge of the ravine. Sick anxiety filled him, for the bullet had not been fired in his direction.

  Two things saved Mark’s life that day. The first was the Kid’s shooting; which disturbed the would-be killer’s aim. The second: his fast reflexes. On hearing the Kid’s shout, Mark clamped a firm hold on the rope and dropped to his knees. Even so, the bullet grazed his shoulder and ripped his expensive shirt open. Pain caused him to loosen his hold and the rope shot through his fingers. Mark clamped his hands down on the rope, then he remembered that stopping it dead might snap the fibres. Gritting his teeth, he gradually slowed the rope, feeling it burn his hands as it ran through.

  Down below, Dusty thought his end had come. From a steady, even glide, he dropped rapidly, then began to slide faster. He heard the Kid’s yell and the shots so looked up, expecting to see Mark dropping with lead in him. Then his fall slowed down, came to a gradual stop for a couple of seconds. He hung on the end of the rope, not looking down, fighting to regain control of his racing pulse and startled nerves. Dusty was scared and he did not give a damn who knew it. The difference between his fear and panic was that he held the fear in control and hung without trying to improve the situation.

  Throwing a glance at Mark and seeing the big Texan on his knees but still holding the rope, the Kid turned his attention to the would-be killer. He guessed his bullet struck the rifle and batted it from its user’s hands. From what he could hear, rustling in the bushes, he guessed the would-be killer was making for safety.

  A low, deep-throated Comanche grunt left the Kid’s lips and he plunged into the bushes, leaping in pursuit of the would-be killer. Whoever fired the shot proved to be fleet of foot, for the Kid was no mean hand at running and it took him some time to close the fifty-yard lead the other had. At last he saw a nioving splash of fawn colour among the greens and browns of the bushes. It flickered in sight for an instant, then disappeared behind a bush ahead of the Kid. Racing forward he bounded the bush and crashed down on the buckskin clad shape. They went to the ground, rolling over. The Kid landed astride the wouldbe killer, kneeling and pinning the writhing body to the ground. Up swung the Kid’s rifle, ready to drive the brass butt-plate into the other’s face.

  ‘You!’ he gasped, recognising his captive through the red mist of fury that had clouded his eyes, and holding off his blow. Slowly, watchfully, he rose to his feet. ‘Get up and walk back there. If Dusty’s fallen, you’ll go in after him.’

  Dusty had not fallen, although it was touch and go for a few seconds. At last Mark gained full control of the rope and continued to lower Dusty at a slower, more even pace. Reaching below him, Dusty felt one of his feet touch a spike of rock. Gently Dusty felt his way around the rock and down on to firm ground.

  ‘Are you all right, Dusty?’ Mark called.

  ‘Sure. Are you?’

  ‘Somebody owes me a new shirt. Got a nick in my shoulder, there’s nothing broke but it hurts like hell.’

  ‘Who did the shooting?’

  ‘Damned if I know. Lon’s took out after whoever it was.’

  Leaning against the ravine side, Dusty freed himself of his rope. Then he unfastened his bandana, shook loose its folds to fasten it over his nose and mouth. The stench of death hung in the air like a cloud and wearing his bandana over his face helped mask some of the vileness of the place. With that done, Dusty worked his way through the rocks towards where the body lay impaled.

  Time ticked by. On top of the ravine, Mark put a hand up to feel at the wound on his shoulder. It appeared to be both wide and deep, but might have been far worse. Yet the wound would be dangerous for it bled freely and he still had to get Dusty out of the ravine. Taking out his handkerchief, Mark made a pad and held it to the wound. He was sweating and shaken. That had been a close call, the closest Mark could remember. Not only for himself, but for Dusty down below.

  In the ravine, Dusty carried out his examination of the body, finding what he suspected. Picking up the revolver which lay at the side of the body, he thrust it into his waistband, then made his way to the wall and refastened the rope.

  ‘Can you haul me up, Mark?’ he called. ‘The sooner we’re back to Casa Thackery the better.’

  ‘I reckon I can,’ Mark answered. ‘Make fast and yell out when you’re ready.’

  ‘I’m ready now.’

  ‘You would be.’

  Mark drew in a deep breath and started to flex his muscles. The pad fell from his shoulder, but he let it lie. Now would be the most difficult part, raising Dusty’s dead weight. They had never intended to fetch up the body, but Dusty would need to be brought out of the ravine as carefully as he went down into it. The question was, could Mark manage to haul his amigo up with that bad graze in his shoulder?

  Gripping the rope, Mark hauled in the slack until he felt Dusty’s weight at the other end.

  ‘Take it easy, Mark!’ Dusty yelled. ‘I’ll get my feet against the wall and try to walk up. That should help.’

  ‘Bueno!’ Mark answered. ‘This nick in my shoulder’s a mite worse than I thought at first.’

  Although Mark tried to keep his anxiety from showing, Dusty heard and recognised it. If there had been less urgency in the situation, Dusty would have suggested waiting for the Kid’s return before getting out of the ravine. What he had just seen told Dusty there was not a moment to lose, and that they must return to Casa Thackery with all speed.

  Dusty leaned back against the rope and placed his right foot against the side of the ravine. He looked up at Mark who stood braced against the pull. Drawing in a deep breath, Dusty yelled, ‘Let’s go!’

  Taking the strain, Mark began to draw in on the rope. Down below, Dusty felt the pull and raised his other foot, stepping out and up. Slowly, placing each foot with care, Dusty started to walk up the sheer wall. In this manner he took some of the strain off Mark. However the blond giant still supported his weight and had to draw in on the rope.

  In every way the climb out was more difficult than the lowering in. Going down, Dusty had been getting closer to the bottom and hanging feet down. If he had fallen then there would have been a slight chance that he might be able to avoid the rocks. On the way up, he rose higher with every step, leaning out at an angle from the wall. Should the rope break a knot slip, or Mark’s strength fail, Dusty would fall backwards and have no chance of escaping being impaled on the rocks.

  On top Mark stood breathing heavily, sweat poured down his face, into his eyes, and soaked his body. He felt the salty sting as sweat ran into his wound and wondered if sweat or blood soaked
the back of his shirt. Both probably, he thought, clenching his teeth and continuing to haul in on the rope. The knots were hard to overcome. It meant taking one hand right away from the rope to grip over the joint and leaving Dusty’s weight supported on the other. With Mark’s good arm this did not greatly matter, but he had some bad moments when gripping the rope with his other hand and feeling the terrible pull on his injured shoulder.

  Mark knew he did not dare hurry his pulling. A sudden jerk on the rope might cause Dusty to lose his footing and slip, and Mark knew his shoulder would not stand up to the weight of Dusty falling.

  Just as Mark felt he could hold on no longer, but knew he must, he saw help coming. Shoving his prisoner ahead of him, the Kid came through the bushes. One glance told the Kid all he needed to know. Mark looked at the end of his tether and needed help about as bad as any man could want it. From the way the rope moved, Dusty must be alive at the other end of it. That fact alone saved the prisoner from instant death, for the Kid’s forefinger trembled on the trigger of his rifle as he saw the blood on Mark’s back.

  ‘L-lend a hand, Lon!’ Mark gasped.

  The request for aid put the Kid in a hell of a spot. Already the prisoner had tried to kill Mark and bring about Dusty’s death so would not hesitate to try again given half a chance. Such a chance would be offered while both Mark and the Kid had their hands full of rope. A sudden push might stagger them over the edge of the ravine, or cause them to loose the rope and drop Dusty to his death. Looking at Mark, the Kid knew there was no time to spare thinking of the prisoner’s feelings. If Dusty was to be saved, the Kid must act quickly.

  With a shove the Kid sent the prisoner sprawling to the ground just in front of his horse. Letting out an angry snort, the big white stallion stamped hard on the ground with a fore hoof and looked down with flaring nostrils and laid back ears at the human creature on the ground before it.

  ‘Stay there!’ ordered the Kid and added a warning as he turned towards Mark. ‘Ole Nigger’ll stamp you flat if you move—and maybe if you don’t.’

  Looking up at the seventeen-hand high white devil the Kid called Nigger, the prisoner did not doubt but what the black dressed Texan spoke the simple truth.

  Knowing the prisoner could give no further trouble, the Kid turned and ran to Mark’s side. Laying his rifle down before them, the Kid reached for the rope.

  ‘Easy!’ Mark warned. ‘Dusty’s walking up.’

  Watched by the hate-filled eyes of the prisoner, Mark and the Kid drew in on the rope. The worst danger had passed now. With the Kid’s aid, Mark could manage to haul in the rope and bring Dusty to safety. For all that, Dusty’s face showed some relief as it appeared at the edge of the ravine. Hooking a leg over the edge, Dusty held out a hand to the Kid and gratefully hauled himself on to solid ground.

  ‘Thanks, Mark, Lon,’ he said, sitting on the ground by Mark as the big Texan sank to his knees.

  ‘I had to save Lon’s makings,’ Mark replied between gasps for breath. ‘I might get a smoke out of him before I bleed to death.’

  For once in his life the Kid did not challenge a remark about his smoking habits. Standing erect and looking off into the distance, the Kid gave silent thanks to Ka-Dih the Great Spirit of the Comanche. While not being a religious man, even to his grandfather’s gods, the Kid reckoned he ought to give thanks to somebody that Mark and Dusty had come through that last fifteen minutes or so alive. They had been in tight spots before, but the Kid reckoned this had been the tightest and they could do without ever having to repeat it.

  Just as Dusty turned to tell the Kid to fix Mark’s shoulder, he saw the prisoner cowering before the menace of the white stallion. Although he was not particularly surprised at the prisoner’s identity, the sight still gave him a bad shock.

  ‘Jennie!’ he gasped.

  ‘She’s the one who tried to shoot Mark,’ the Kid put in, moving towards his horse. ‘But I’m damned if I know why.’

  ‘I reckon I do,’ Dusty said quietly, his left hand rubbing the butt of the rusted old Navy Colt in his waistband. ‘Let her up, Lon, then tend to Mark.’

  Rising, Jennie came towards Dusty, her pale face working spasmodically as if she did not know whether to smile or cry at him. She halted a few feet away from him, stopped by the cold glow in his eyes. If Jennie had imagined her sex, or her grandfather’s hopes, would sway Dusty her way, she now saw there was no hope of it happening.

  ‘I—I didn’t want to hurt you, Dustine,’ she said.

  ‘Did you mean to hurt Marlene last night?’ he answered.

  For a guess, and it was no more, the words made a meat-in-the-pot hit. Cold anger glowed in the girl’s eyes and an expression of hate twisted her face into something old and vicious, as mean as her grandfather always looked.

  ‘Yes!’ Jennie spat out. ‘I meant to hurt her. She ordered me to bed. Me! In Casa Thackery! She told me to go to bed as if she owned the house!’

  Mark and the Kid looked at the girl, then exchanged glances. They wondered how Jennie managed to get into the locked room, and what made Dusty suspect the girl.

  ‘And you killed her,’ Dusty said quietly.

  ‘I killed her,’ Jennie agreed. ‘I went from my room and I watched her as she fought with Joan Shandley. It couldn’t have worked better if I’d planned it. When Joan beat Aunt Marlene unconscious I saw my chance. I slipped up and hit Joan with the chair leg and then used the knife I brought on Aunt Marlene. The blood splashed my hand and dress but I didn’t care. I knew how to take any suspicion from me.’

  ‘Sure,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Put Marlene’s ring on Joan’s finger, make sure everybody thought Joan killed Marlene and robbed her.’

  ‘Yes. Then she would be tried for Aunt Marlene’s murder and hanged for it.’

  ‘Why Joan, Jennie?’

  ‘She treated Grandfather like a saddle-tramp, humiliated him. I hated her. That was why we included her in the will. She was another one who wanted to take Casa Thackery from me, Dustine. They can’t do it. I won’t let them do it. Casa Thackery and everything Grandfather owns is mine. I had to fight for what belongs to me. Dustine, you must know how I feel.’

  For a long moment Dusty did not reply. His eyes studied the girl’s face as if he had never seen it before. Then an involuntary shudder ran through him.

  ‘I don’t know, Jennie,’ he said. ‘And I hope to God I never do.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TO AVENGE BEEGEE BENSON

  ONLY a couple of Mexican house servants saw the three Texans bring Jennie back to Casa Thackery. The cowhands, used to Borg’s absence in a morning, went out to carry on with their work, and the people at the house stayed inside. Waco had been given certain orders by Dusty and the youngster obeyed them to the letter.

  Leaving Jennie in the Kid’s care, Dusty and Mark went to the house, using the kitchen. Dusty sent the cook to find the doctor and waited until Mark’s wound received proper care before putting the next part of his plan into operation.

  ‘You were lucky, Mark,’ the doctor stated. ‘That’s a nasty gash up there.’

  ‘Yeah, I reckoned it might be, Doc,’ Mark replied. ‘And don’t ask what happened, I hate lying.’

  ‘Got it cleaning your gun, huh?’

  ‘You might say that,’ grinned Mark. ‘Fact being, until after Dusty gives the word I’d take it kind if you did say it.’

  ‘I’ll go along with you,’ promised the doctor.

  Dusty had been to see various people while Mark’s wound received attention and he now returned carrying a new shirt for the blond giant, collected from his warbag in the room.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Come with me, Doc. Mark, go tell Lon to bring her along like we planned.’

  Feeling puzzled, but interested, the doctor followed Dusty to the library. He found a good crowd gathered, which did not surprise Dusty who had arranged for them to be there. The sheriff sat scowling and wondering if he ought to have stood on his rights as senior law enforcement officer
of the county and objected to Dusty ordering him to join the people in the room. Roughly the same thoughts ran through Claude Thackery’s head; he wondered if he should have asked Dusty by what right he gave orders in Casa Thackery. Joan Shandley sat stiffly in a chair by Mamie Thackery, after the old woman and Frankie helped her downstairs. The local undertaker had come along because he possessed an inquisitive nature and wanted to know what went on in the grim old walls of the house.

  Silence fell on the room and every eye went to Dusty as he walked from the door to halt before the crowd. He stood at the side of the room, looking across it, glancing at the fireplace and the portrait on the wall.

  ‘Jennie’s not in her room, Dustine,’ Mamie said. ‘I don’t know where she is. Nobody’s seen her all morning.’

  ‘She knows what I’m going to tell you,’ Dusty truthfully replied.

  ‘What’s it all about, Dusty?’ Gaunt asked.

  ‘Sheriff,’ Dusty said, ignoring the question. ‘You never checked on that body in the ravine, did you?’

  ‘Shucks, everybody could see it was Elmo,’ Topham replied.

  ‘He the only white haired old man around here?’

  ‘Naw. Course he ain’t, Cap’n. There’s old Bill Turner—’

  ‘Ain’t seen old Bill around for some weeks now,’ the doctor interrupted Topham to announce. ‘Been by his place three times and he wasn’t there.’

  ‘Hell, Doc!’ snorted Topham. ‘You know old Bill takes off prospecting every once in a while. Anyways, that couldn’t’ve been Bill. Them two cowhands who found the body said it was wearing the same clothes they’d seen Elmo in not an hour afore they found him.’

  ‘What’re your questions leading to, Dusty?’ Gaunt put in.

  ‘That feller in the ravine,’ Dusty answered. ‘He was shot in the back before he went over.’

  The words created something of a sensation. Talk welled up among the occupants of the room and was silenced by an angry gesture from Topham who came to his feet.