by J. T. Edson
‘Sure,’ Kenny agreed. ‘It’s Slinky Moore, works with Sprig Branch. They’re mesteneros, mustangers.’
‘Like you.’
‘I wouldn’t thank you for thinking it. Mustanging’s a rough game, but I’d sooner vote Republican than handle hosses the way Branch and his bunch do.’
‘How do you mean?’ Colin asked.
‘I don’t go much on a feller who uses clogs, or drag chains on the hosses he catches,’ Kenny replied. ‘Branch’s bunch do that—and worse. I was right, Slinky ain’t here on his lonesome.’
Turning his head slightly, Colin saw four men coming down the stairs. Two of them were gangling, unshaven, with hatchet faces, wearing buckskins, moccasins and with knives as well as revolvers slung about them. Kenny whispered that they were Sam and Eric Trimble.
Sprig Branch topped the Trimbles by maybe an inch, being around six foot tall and heavy-built. Black hair straggled untidily from beneath his dirty Jeff Davis campaign hat and stubbled his surly face. He had on a grey shirt, riding breeches of faded blue and calf-high Indian moccasins. Butt forward on an Army weapon belt hung a Remington revolver. Like his companions, he showed signs of long, hard riding.
‘Howdy, Kenny,’ Branch greeted, coming to the bar followed by his men. ‘Didn’t figure on finding you here. How’s Ma and lil Jeanie?’
‘Well enough,’ Kenny replied, watching the men fan in a half circle around him and Colin. ‘You all right, Sprig?’
‘Nothing wrong with me that getting an Army remount contract won’t cure,’ Branch answered and hooked his elbow on the counter. ‘Which same’s’s good’s got.’
‘Nice to be sure,’ Kenny said dryly, turning with his back to the bar and facing the Trimble brothers. Moore stood beyond Colin, a sly, vicious grin twisting his lips.
‘There’s nobody else for it,’ Branch stated.
‘’Cepting me,’ Kenny commented.
‘Your pard sure dresses elegant, Kenny,’ Eric Trimble remarked. ‘I ain’t never seed a feller wearing a skirt afore.’
‘Now that ain’t the truth, lil brother,’ Sam Trimble put in. ‘We did so see one. Back in Galveston afore the War. Only he wore a wig, face-paint and jewelry as well. Them sailor-boys sure used to come ’round him like bees to honey.’
Sucking in his breath, Colin put down the glass. He still faced the bar, but could see the Trimbles’ leering faces reflected in the mirror. Something about them gave Colin a warning. The two men were looking for trouble, that showed in their attitude. Not wanting to become involved in a brawl, Colin tightened his lips and ignored the words. A red flush crept up the back of his neck and he clenched his fists.
‘I mind the feller,’ Eric continued. ‘They say he used to dress like a gal all the way through. Fancy frilly drawers and all. Is that what you wear, feller—or should I say “girlie”?’
Still Colin refused to be goaded. However, Kenny looked at Branch and growled, ‘Call ’em off, Sprig.’
‘The boys’re only funning, Kenny,’ Branch answered in a carrying tone, but made no attempt to do as the young mustanger asked.
‘I asked you a question, girlie,’ Eric said. ‘What do you wear under that skirt?’
Slowly Colin turned to face his tormentors. ‘I’m thinking you’d best mind your own business.’
Games stopped and conversation around the room drifted to an end as the people present became aware that the group at the bar were doing more than making idle conversation. Moving along the sober side of the counter, the bartender hoped to prevent trouble.
‘Take it easy, boys,’ he said in a placating manner. ‘Let’s all have a drink and keep things friendly.’
‘Sure we will,’ Sam agreed. ‘Only if we’re all so friendly, this feller oughta show us what’s under his skirt.’
Watching the others, Branch grinned. On learning of Kenny Schell’s presence, he had seen a way to remove his only rival for the Army remount contract. No other mustangers were in the area and the Army needed horses badly. So their buying commission would award the contract to the first mesteneros who applied. All too well Branch knew the Schell family’s reputation and so did the Army. Even with Trader dead, the soldiers might figure the Schells their best bet. However, if Kenny met with an accident there was no other man to take his place.
From Moore’s description, Branch had guessed Colin’s nationality and figured how the Scot would react to comments about his kilt. So he had given orders for his men to pick on Colin. That way it would seem the trouble started with the Scot and Kenny became involved by accident. Once a fight began, it would be easy to see that Kenny did not walk away from it.
Aware of what his boss wanted, Moore winked at the Trimbles and took hold of the kilt’s hem.
‘Let’s take a loo—’ the little man began.
And got no further with words or actions. Letting out a low growl, Colin laid his left hand on Moore’s face and pushed. Lifted from his feet, the small man went reeling down the bar, tripped over a spittoon and sat on his rump with some force.
Realizing that there was no hope of avoiding trouble, Colin wisely decided to make the best of it. He had no intention of giving up his national dress, so figured an example of his fighting skill might cool off other such incidents.
A startled curse broke from Sam Trimble and he began to turn on Colin. Swinging around from pushing Moore, the Scot crashed a backhand blow which caught the side of Sam’s jaw and pitched him headlong into his brother. With a snarl, Eric shoved Sam away—and almost immediately wished that he had not. Gliding in, Colin drove his right fist against Eric’s stomach. Feeling as if he had been kicked in the stomach by a mule, Eric reeled back. His eyes bulged out, hands clasped at his mid-section and he dropped to his knees, moaning.
Branch gulped, backing away along the bar and staring as if mesmerized at the scene before him. Beyond Kenny and Colin, Moore sat looking dazed. Sam hung against a table, shaking his head in an attempt to control its tendency to spin. From all appearances, it would be some time before Eric felt like resuming hostilities. Sucking in a breath, Branch tried to put on an indignant front.
‘There was no cause for that,’ he growled. The boys were only funning.’
‘They’re not laughing any,’ Kenny replied. ‘You taking it up for them?’
Before Branch could reply, Sam moved from the table. Straightening up, he rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, looked at the blood smeared on it and spat out a curse.
‘You stinking swish!vi’ Sam snarled, spreading his fingers over the butt of his Colt. ‘Fill you hand!’
‘He’s not wearing a gun,’ Kenny put in, watching Eric lurch erect and Moore stand then move to Sam’s side.
‘Then he’s going to hoist up that skirt and show us what’s under it!’ Eric gritted, joining his brother.
‘How’s about it, Branch?’ Kenny asked, not taking his eyes from the trio. ‘Are you letting them take this through?’
‘You know how it is now you’re one, Kenny,’ Branch answered as he ranged himself alongside Eric. ‘A boss has to stand by his men.’
‘So that’s the way it is, huh?’ Kenny said quietly. ‘If it’s me you’re after, say so and let Colin go.’
‘We’re not after anybody, Kenny,’ Branch stated, raising his voice to carry around the room. ‘Only that feller jumped my boys and we don’t reckon it’s right. So we aim to do what we started out to do.’
Colin listened, only partly understanding what was going on. Inexperienced though he was, he read the menace in the four men’s attitude. Suddenly he realized that the affair had gone beyond mere horse-play. Yet no Scot would tamely submit to the indignity the quartet tried to force on him. Colin knew that if he stayed on, there would be bad trouble.
‘I think we’d better leave,’ he said to Kenny.
‘Not without doing what we said,’ Eric growled.
‘We’re coming through,’ Kenny announced and the listening crowd prepared to take cover.
‘
The hell you are!’ Sam snarled.
‘Through or over,’ Kenny warned. ‘Let’s go, Colin.’
Chapter Five
With a sigh of relief, Jeanie Schell fastened the buckle of her waist belt and wriggled her body in near ecstasy. On the bed lay her dress and the sun bonnet, discarded along with the high-button shoes at the first opportunity. Her short, curly hair was no longer hidden and she wore the kind of clothes the Kid remembered as her normal outfit: a boy’s tartan shirt and levis pants with their cuffs hanging cowhand style outside high heeled riding boots. Giving another sigh of satisfaction, she walked out of the bedroom.
Following their custom where possible, the Schell family were living in a cabin left deserted by its previous owner. Long used to such temporary homes, Ma had settled them in comfortably. In the two days since she and Kenny arrived, she had cleaned up the cabin and augmented the furniture left by the departed owner with items of her own carried in their wagon. The result was that they had a house for their stay in Fort Sawyer, furnished adequately if not luxuriously. Ma had lived all her married life under similar conditions and accepted them as payment for a very happy marriage.
Of middle height, Ma might easily have been taken for Jeanie’s elder sister. She had married young and carried her thirty-nine years well. Blonde hair as short and curly as her daughter’s framed a merry, pretty face. Ma’s buxom figure was squeezed into unaccustomed corsets and a sober black dress suitable for going town-visiting. Like Jeanie, she did not care for such clothing; which accounted, more than any other reason, for the disapproving manner in which she eyed her daughter.
Sensing an attack on her choice of clothes was imminent, and aware of what caused it, Jeanie tried to divert it.
‘We’ve enough on our hands right now without Kenny having to wet-nurse that Scotch feller, Ma,’ she said.
‘He saved you,’ Ma replied. ‘We’re beholden to him for that.’
‘The Kid saved me as well, comes to that,’ Jeanie protested, wanting to keep the conversation going long enough for her mother to forget the irritation of the corsets. ‘Aren’t we beholden to him too?’
‘If the Ysabel Kid don’t know how to look out for his-self by now, he’s been living on luck since he was ten,’ Ma answered. ‘The Kid knows Mexicans like your pappy knew mustanging. That Scotch boy doesn’t know ’em, so I figure we owe him some help.’
As she mentioned her husband, Ma turned her eyes towards the fireplace. Following the direction of her mother’s gaze, Jeanie knew what attracted Ma’s attention. Hung in a place of honor on the wall above the fireplace was an ivory handled Dragoon Colt. It had been her father’s gun and looking at it reminded Jeanie afresh of her family’s financial situation.
Times were hard in Texas. Although not a slave-owning State, except on a very limited scale, its pre-War Administration had elected to secede from the Union. The South lost the War and Texans worked to rebuild their State. In one way they might have counted themselves lucky. Texas’ vast distances and small Negro population prevented the heavy hand of Reconstruction falling on any but the more civilized eastern and northern areas. In the south and west life went on much as before the War, but defeat brought problems in its wake.
Produced to replace the Union’s monetary system, the currency of the Confederate States became valueless paper with the North’s victory. Which meant that the people of Texas had to start almost from scratch if they hoped to re-establish their shattered economy. The State had no conventional industries capable of competing for business on a nation-wide level, but it possessed a rich natural wealth that might possibly be developed.
Chief source of natural wealth was cattle. Left all but un-tended through the years of the War, the herds of longhorns had multiplied practically unchecked. They offered a potential way to solvency which a few far-seeing men could understand. However, the way back to financial stability would not be easy. Two major problems needed solving. Where to sell the stock and how to handle the half-wild cattle on the great, unfenced Texas range country.
The second problem was of most interest to the Schell family. To work cattle, men needed horses. During the War, the Confederate States Army drew remounts in plenty from the Texas ranchers. To tend and round up their cattle, they had to rebuild their remudas. That was where mustangers like the Schell family came in. Mustangs roamed in great numbers in certain sections of the range country, untamed but offering the answer to the ranchers’ needs. Under the rugged, merciless laws of nature only the fittest horses survived; animals used to fending for themselves and able to keep in good health on what they could forage. So the wild horses became a vital necessity to the recovery of Texas.
Gathering mustangs was not so easy as the uninitiated might believe. Men like Trader Schell had long made it their profession. They knew where to look for the greatest concentrations, developing techniques to catch and hold together large numbers of wild horses. With their superior skill, the professional mustangers could supply a rancher’s needs in less time and cheaper than he might using his own men.
Although there was a steady demand for horses, Trader Schell had not grown rich. Only a few ranchers, those who had been wise enough to convert some of their money into gold during the War, could pay cash for the stock. The rest traded property to fill their needs, or gave notes-of-hand for cattle in exchange for the horses. Despite cattle still having little more than hide-and-tallow value, knowing the ranchers’ desperate position. Trader had accepted the notes. He still had to meet his overheads and storekeepers fought shy of taking anything but money.
After Trader’s death, the family had decided to continue mustanging. It was the only business they knew. One of the main reasons for the decision had been the news, passed on by a friend in a position to know, that the Army wanted remounts for its forthcoming campaigns against the hostile Indians. Such a chance could not be ignored. The Army paid well—and in cash—for its horses. According to the friend’s information, the Army needed a large number of horses and would look favorably on Trader Schell supplying them as he had a reputation for honesty and producing animals in good condition.
The only trouble was that Trader had been killed before the letter arrived. However, Ma felt sure that the family could carry on. They knew the mustanging business thoroughly, having been well taught by her husband. Money would be their chief difficulty. Paying off their mesteneros did not leave enough cash to buy the supplies needed for an extensive hunt.
Much against her will, Ma had decided to ask her husband’s brother for help. Trader had set the man up in business before the war and Ma sent Jeanie to Brownsville to explain the situation.
Thinking of how the trip had turned out, the girl made a wry face.
‘Damn Uncle Jabez!’ she spat out, taking her eyes from the old Dragoon. ‘He could’ve helped us out. He allowed he couldn’t hardly make ends meet; and there was Cousin Annie-Jo all dressed up in a fancy silk frock, with a cupboard full of ’em.’
‘I never did cotton to Jabez,’ Ma admitted. ‘Only I figured he’d see his way to help out for a share of the profits, if not because Trader was his only brother.’
‘Some folk forget real easy,’ Jeanie said bitterly.
If the Ysabel Kid had been on hand to hear the words, he would have understood the girl’s behavior on the stagecoach. In his life Trader Schell had been generous, especially to his brother. Yet Jabez Schell had not been able to see his way clear to help out his sister-in-law and her family, despite the fact that his business was running successfully. A good-hearted girl, with love and respect for her father, Jeanie deeply resented what she regarded as the treachery to his memory.
‘We’ll get by,’ Ma stated. ‘Even without Uncle Jabez’s help.’
Since her return, Jeanie had found no time to catch up on the local developments. First she had told of the hold up. Hearing of Colin’s actions, Ma had decided that Kenny should go and guard the young Scot against reprisals by the Flores brothers. A bath followed, then J
eanie put on her usual style of clothing. So she had not yet found an opportunity to ask about their future plans.
‘What’ll we do now, Ma?’ she asked.
‘Like we come to do,’ Ma answered. ‘Go and see the Army’s boss buyer at noon tomorrow and try for the contract.’
‘How about the supplies we need to go out again?’
‘Dick Hoffer’ll stake us if we get the contract.’
A knock on the front door prevented the discussion being extended. Nodding to her daughter, Ma went to pick up the Sharps carbine which leaned against the side of the fireplace. With the click of the Sharps’ hammer coming to full cock following her, Jeanie crossed the room.
‘Who-all’s out there?’ she called.
‘Dusty Fog,’ a familiar voice replied.
Letting out a sigh, Ma lowered the carbine and set its hammer down again. Jeanie opened the door without hesitation. In addition to being a friend of long standing, the man outside was something of a legend in his own young life-time.
During the War, his age no more than seventeen years, Dusty Fog held rank as captain in the Texas Light Cavalry. To folk in his home State, and both sides on the Arkansas battle-front, his ability as a military raider had been rated above the more publicized Turner Ashby or John Singleton Mosby. His exploits included taking ten thousand dollars from a Yankee pay-master, vii helping the equally legendary Rebel Spy to destroy a forging plant meant to flood the South with counterfeit money, viii and wiping out Hannah’s band of murderous renegades.
On his return to Texas, the crippling of Ole Devil Hardin— by a horse the Schells captured—put Dusty Fog as segundo of the great OD Connected ranch. ix He had recently returned from completing a mission of some importance in Mexico and was once more plunged into the business of rebuilding the ranch. Many tales were told of his courage, chivalry and ability. In addition to being lightning fast on the draw, he could shoot with considerable accuracy from either hand and stood second to no man when it came to rough-house brawling. x