by J. T. Edson
On hearing the commotion, Libby had come to investigate. While she did not know what had started the fight, she could see enough to tell her that Mark might be needing some help. With that in mind, she hitched up her skirt and injected a bare, shapely leg between Noris’s feet. Doing so might have been a repetition of the trick Going had tried on the blond giant, but there was one major difference. Mark had suspected that the attempt would be made and was ready for it. Libby’s intervention took Noris completely unawares. Catching his rear foot against the woman’s calf, the soldier went stumbling helplessly by Mark and Heaps to end his progress by falling over Going’s recumbent body.
Taken with his earlier anxieties, the sight of his second helper blundering off uncontrollably caused Heaps to slacken his grip a little. Surging apart his elbows, Mark forced Heaps’s arms to slip up to his shoulders. Catching the sergeant’s right wrist with his left hand so that his arm also pinned the other’s left forearm against the chest of the tan-colored shirt, Mark continued with his escape. Bowing his torso forward and forcing Heaps to duplicate the movement, Mark bent his knees and twisted to the left. By ducking his head forward and straightening his legs, he catapulted the sergeant over the upper part of his back. With Heaps in full flight, and feeling the blue-clad arms release their hold, Mark set him free.
A small crowd of civilians had been attracted by the fight. While none of them had offered to intervene on Mark’s behalf, they clearly appreciated the manner in which he dealt with the sergeant.
A trained cavalryman, Heaps managed to lessen the force of his landing on the wooden boards. He lit down rolling and came to a halt by the wall of the store. Thrusting himself on to his knees, he snarled a curse and started to knock open the flap of his holster.
Down flashed Mark’s right hand, lifting its Colt from the holster in a flickering blur of movement. Cocking back the hammer and depressing the trigger after the gun had cleared leather and pointed away from him, Mark leveled the eight-inch barrel by instinctive alignment. Up so close, that method offered almost as much accuracy as taking sight in the formal manner.
Heaps would never be closer to death than at that moment.
Little more than a year had elapsed since the meeting at the Appomattox Court House had brought an end to the War Between The States. For almost two years before that, the sight of a Union-blue uniform had nearly always meant shooting to the blond giant. Only by an effort of will did Mark refrain from bringing his draw to its ultimate conclusion by removing his thumb from the hammer’s spur. If he had done so, the hammer would have flashed forward, struck and ignited the waiting percussion cap, detonated the powder charge and sent a bullet to tear its way into the sergeant’s skull.
‘Get your hand off it, hombre!’ Mark ordered.
Concentrating on preventing Heaps’s attempt to pull a gun, Mark did not see Noris preparing to rejoin the fight. Writhing clear of the moaning, agony-contorted Going, Noris knelt up and reached for his holstered Army Colt. With the big Texan’s attention on Heaps, the soldier felt certain that he could draw and shoot undetected. Nor did Noris expect any repercussions to follow his actions. No officer in the Occupation Army would dare deal too harshly with a Federal soldier who shot down an un-Reconstructed Rebel under the prevailing conditions.
Once again Libby saw the danger to Mark, but was less suitably positioned to help him avert it. Her shotgun rested in its boot on the inside of the wagon’s driving box and her Derringer was in the reticule which she had left on the store’s counter when coming to see the cause of the commotion.
Swinging her gaze around the onlookers, she saw a familiar figure amongst them. It was a man who she believed would dare the wrath of the Union Army by intervening, even if none of the other spectators showed signs of doing so.
‘Tam!’ Libby shouted and saw that the man she addressed was already taking cards in the affair.
‘Leave your gun where it is, soldier!’
Cold and authoritative, the words which smote Noris’s ears had a Texas drawl underlaid by a Scottish burr. They also carried an implied threat that caused the soldier’s head to swivel hurriedly around. What Noris saw caused him to snatch his fingers from the flap of the holster as if the leather had suddenly become red hot.
From his low-crowned gray Stetson to the soles of his high-heeled, spur-decorated boots, the speaker did not exceed five foot nine inches. He made up in hard-muscled breadth what he lacked in height, but without appearing to be heavy or clumsy. Clothed in a buckskin shirt and Mexican-styled trousers, he had a gun belt about his waist which supported a walnut-handled Dragoon Colt tied low on his right thigh, and a Scottish dirk swung at his left hip. Neither the revolver nor the knife particularly interested Noris at that moment. Instead, he stared at the short, double-barreled ten gauge shotgun that the man was lining in his direction. Tanned, strong-looking, the man’s rugged features expressed no hint of hesitation nor weakness.
‘What’re you do—?’ Noris croaked, remembering that he had seen the intruder visiting the colonel’s quarters at the Army post the previous evening.
‘I said leave your gun holstered,’ the man interrupted. ‘Then see to your amigo. This’s gone far enough.’
A view with which 1st Lieutenant Lebel appeared to be in complete agreement, although probably for different reasons. On his way to visit the de Brioudes, he had seen the fight and come to stop it.
‘All right, that’s enough,’ Lebel barked, thrusting his way through the crowd. ‘Put your gun away, cowboy!’
‘When I’m sure I won’t need it again,’ Mark replied and nodded to the non-com. ‘Which won’t be until after your kicker there closes his holster.’
Suddenly Lebel became uncomfortably aware that he had no real jurisdiction in the affair, except as it affected a member of the United States Army. Nor had he the means to enforce his will upon the big blond civilian. So he swung his attention to Heaps.
‘On your feet, sergeant!’ Lebel snapped. ‘Close your holster. What the hell’s been happening here?’
Forcing himself upright, Heaps sullenly refastened the flap of his holster. The sergeant sensed danger for himself. One of the younger officers at the post, Lebel still knew how to protect himself with the Manual of Field Regulations’ disciplinary powers. So Heaps knew that he must answer. He wondered how to do it in a way that would conform with the strict standing orders laid down by the post’s commanding officer regarding the relationship of his men and the local civilians. A career officer, with no political or ‘liberal’ axe to grind, the colonel had always insisted that the soldiers under his command should steer clear of friction or open clashes with the native Texans. He would, therefore, take a very serious line of action should he learn why the three enlisted men had attacked the blond giant.
‘They jumped the big feller there for no reason I could see, mister,’ announced the man with the shotgun, before Heaps could produce any acceptable explanation. ‘Only they sure as hell picked on the wrong laddie for their games.’
Darting an indignant scowl at the intruder, Heaps also recognized him as the colonel’s visitor and left unsaid his proposed denial. Lebel looked at the civilian for a moment, then swung his gaze back to the sergeant.
‘How about it, Heaps?’ the lieutenant demanded, not quite sure of his ground and wanting to avoid taking chances of doing the wrong thing.
‘Why don’t we say it was a piece of horsing around that got a mite too rough, mister?’ Mark suggested, lowering the hammer and holstering his Colt. ‘It’ll likely be easier for all concerned that way.’
‘I’ll go with you on that, friend,’ declared the man with the shotgun.
‘Is that what happened, Sergeant Heaps?’ Lebel insisted, not willing to appear too openly influenced by the civilians’ comments.
‘It was like the bee—big feller said—sir,’ the sergeant growled, looking slightly relieved. ‘We was just horsing around and it got too rough.’
‘Do you want to make charges agai
nst these men?’ Lebel asked the big blond, indicating the three soldiers.
‘Nope,’ Mark replied. ‘I’m willing to forget the whole thing, if they are.’
Feelings of friendship for the soldiers did not influence Mark’s attitude. The last thing he wanted was for the incident to be taken any further. If it should be, the whole of the previous night’s affair would be brought into the open. So far Lansing and the other card players had kept quiet about what they had found on breaking into Mark’s room. That was in part due to Ben Thompson’s warning about the blond giant’s probable reaction to idle gossip on the subject. In addition, the Vicomte had asked that they should not embarrass his wife by discussing the ‘attempted attack’ upon her. While disinterested in how the truth would affect the Vicomtesse, Mark had no wish to have Libby’s participation made public.
‘Very well,’ Lebel said coldly. ‘If you feel that way, we’ll let the matter drop. Take these men back to the post, sergeant. I’ll be seeing you later.’
‘Yo!’ Heaps grunted. ‘Help Going up, Noris, and move out.’
‘My apologies for this incident,’ Lebel said stiffly to Mark, watching the three soldiers depart.
‘It’s forgotten,’ the big blond drawled. ‘Likely they didn’t mean any real harm with their fooling.’
Letting out a sniff that might have meant anything, the lieutenant made a smart about-face and marched off after his men. Satisfied that there would be no further developments, the crowd broke up and moved away.
‘You said that as if you meant it,’ Libby remarked, walking towards the big blond. She looked by him and continued, ‘I’m real pleased to see you, Tam.’
Mark turned his attention to the man whose intervention had most likely saved his life. Stepping from the sidewalk, Libby went forward with a smile and her right hand extended. Showing equal pleasure, the stocky man cradled the shotgun on the crook of his left arm.
Although his rescuer had not made any adjustments to them since taking the shotgun out of line on Private Noris, the blond giant noticed that the hammers rested at the safe half-cock position. If the man had been bluffing, it was a safe enough bluff. Nobody in his right mind would take a chance when looking into the yawning twin tubes of a ten-gauge shotgun.
‘You look younger and lovelier than when I last saw you, Libby,’ the man answered, shaking hands with every indication of pleasure.
‘And you’re as big a liar,’ Libby smiled, clearly delighted by the compliment. ‘Tam, this young feller you helped’s Big Rance Counter’s boy, Mark. Mark, get acquainted with Tam Breda.’
‘Howdy, Tam,’ greeted Mark as the man reluctantly released Libby’s hand to take his. ‘Say, you’re Colin Farquharson’s kinsman.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Breda. ‘I heard he was working for you, Libby.’
‘Yes,’ the blonde replied. ‘Colin’s with us. He’s engaged to marry Jeanie.’
‘Bueno!’ enthused Breda. ‘Are they in town the now?’
‘Nope. They stayed behind to move camp on to the Upper Guadalupe. We’re headed out to join them as soon’s we’re loaded.’
‘I heard about Colin’s run-in with the Flores bunch, Libby,’ Breda said, sounding a trifle defensive. ‘Trouble being that I was on business in Austin and he’d handed them their needings before I could come back.’
‘Ole Colin sure did that,’ Mark put in, taking a liking to the stocky man. ‘Hey! I didn’t thank you for cutting in and helping me, Tam.’
‘Any friend of Libby’s can count on my help every time,’ Breda replied, showing his relief at finding the blonde and Mark did not hold it against him that he had failed to come to his kinsman’s assistance. ‘I’m going up to Kerrville, Libby. I’d admire to ride along with you.’
‘Feel free,’ offered Libby. ‘We’ll be pulling out after we’ve ate at noon.’
‘Why don’t you both come down to the Grand Hotel and eat with me?’ Breda suggested.
‘That’ll suit us fine,’ confirmed Libby and Mark nodded his agreement.
‘Say, Mark,’ Breda remarked. ‘Why did those fellers jump you? I’d reckon they was waiting for you to come out of the store.’
‘I couldn’t say,’ Mark answered truthfully, for he would not lie to Breda nor explain the reason. ‘Just ornery, likely.’
‘Likely,’ grunted Breda. ‘I’ve a few things to tend to, so I’ll see you at the Grand around noon.’
‘He’s a nice feller,’ Mark commented as Breda strolled off along the sidewalk.
‘Real nice,’ Libby agreed, then a slight flush came to her cheeks as she saw her companion’s smile. ‘Shucks, he grew up with Trader and me back around San Antonio. Went mustanging with us a few times. Then he up and rode off to join Captain Jack Cureton’s Rangers just afore the War.’
‘They did good work,’ Mark admitted.
‘Tam couldn’t help being away on business while Colin was facing up to the Flores boys,’ Libby declared.
‘I didn’t reckon he could,’ Mark assured her. ‘Like I said, he’s a real nice feller and he’d do to ride the river with.’
‘Come on,’ Libby said hurriedly. ‘Let’s go get the wagon loaded.’
Watching the blonde return to the store, Mark grinned. If he read the signs correctly, she had not been averse to meeting Breda again and looked forward to having his company during the journey to Kerr County. Maybe she even hoped that he could extend the period of accompanying her. Not that Mark considered that to be any of his business. Libby was mature enough to know what she was doing.
For all that, Mark felt puzzled by Breda. He owed the stocky Scot his life and liked what he had seen of the other; but he could not help wondering why that bow-necked young Yankee lieutenant had so readily accepted Breda’s—a Texan’s—version of the incident and made little attempt to disprove it.
Chapter Six
‘Can’t you-call just count on old Mark to pull the easy chores?’ demanded the Ysabel Kid indignantly. ‘There’s him a-whooping and a-womanizing down to Fort Sawyer while we’re working like there’s only one day left to do it.’
If the Indian-dark youngster expected his comment to produce any sympathy, he was to meet with a disappointment.
‘Yah!’ Jeanie Schell scoffed. ‘You’re all riled ’n’ ornery ’cause you’ve got to do some work afoot.’
‘So I should be,’ protested the Kid. ‘Walking’s only fitting for hosses, food-dawgs, mules, squaws ’n’ white folks.’
‘In that order?’ asked Colin Farquharson.
‘All the way ’n’ all the time,’ confirmed the Kid.
‘Day’s going to come when a gal’ll show you a squaw’s good for some things that a horse or a food-dog isn’t,’ Dusty Fog warned. ‘See if it don’t.’ xiv
‘Damned if I can think what them “things”’d be,’ grinned the Kid, taking one of the coiled ropes from by the caracol’s gate. ‘Well, seeing’s there ain’t no chance of getting out of it, let’s make a start.’
With the manada de hermanos safely in the enclosure, the mustanging party had to carry out the even more difficult and exacting task of securing them so that they could be removed. For one thing, the caracol had neither food nor water to supply the needs of the horses. Nor could it be used to trap other manadas with the young stallions running loose inside.
There were various methods by which the securing could be carried out. Some mustangers fastened a forked stick to a front ankle of each horse, the shank positioned to trip the animal by tangling its rear legs if it moved at any gait swifter than a walk. Others lashed a block of wood to the mustang’s foretop which swung and banged against the horse’s face when it ran. In California, the mesteneros frequently blindfolded their catches and allowed the wild horses to mingle with domesticated mounts. In their sightless condition, the mustangs stuck close to the other horses. Probably the most cruel method was that of the Paiute Indians, stitching shut the nostrils of their captives.
Being humane as well as a shrewd businessman, T
rader Schell would have nothing to do with such cruel methods. He had taught his family that the unnecessarily brutal treatment could be avoided and defeated its own ends. Far too many of the captured horses died as a result of it. Maybe Trader Schell’s ways meant more work, but his losses rarely went higher than one in twenty. That compared favorably against the one out of five which died after being caught by the crueler members of the mustanging business. Nor did the matter end there. The Schells’ horses could be trained with greater facility and fewer of them became unmanageable outlaws or mindless, nervous wrecks.
Entering the caracol on foot, carrying coiled ropes and other equipment, the men paired off and made ready to start work. Jeanie hovered in the background, available to help any couple requiring assistance.
Picking a brown stallion from amongst the milling manada, Dusty swung his rope and made a fast hooley-ann throw. xv He aimed true, the loop falling over the horse’s head and tightening about its neck. Feeling the touch of the hard-plaited Manila fibers, the brown reared upon its hind legs in an attempt to escape. That was the reaction sought by the small Texan.
Working as Dusty’s partner, the Kid brought off a mangana throw. Right hand turned downwards, he sent his loop flying in the horse’s direction so that the circle of rope stood almost vertically. With perfect timing, the Kid’s loop encircled the horse’s raised and pawing forelegs. A flick of his wrists tightened the rope about them. As they returned to the ground, the trapped legs caused the horse to tumble on to its side.
Darting in as the animal tried to rise, Dusty girthed its body with a rawhide strap. While the Kid held both ropes, deftly controlling the stallion’s attempts to free itself or turn on and bite Dusty, the small Texan buckled another strap to its near rear fetlock. The upper end of the strap connected to the girth and, on being drawn tight, raised the left hoof from the ground.
Having fixed the sarprima, as mustangers called such a device, the Texans removed their ropes. Although able to stand and move with limited freedom, the fastenings effectively prevented the stallion from travelling at any speed.