by J. T. Edson
‘Except down at the bottom of a dry wash we should hit afore it gets light enough to be seen from them high places.’
‘So what’s up with us using it?’ demanded Waco.
‘The sides’re’s steep as hell,’ explained the Kid. ‘Not straight down, but close enough to it.’
‘Let’s take a look at it, Comanch’,’ Dusty drawled. ‘We’ve got to get out of sight. If the feller sees us, he’ll let those bucks know that we’re here.’
Advancing across the gradually lightening range, the three young men came to the edge of a deep, wide dry wash. One glance was all any of them needed to tell that there was no easy point of descent within visual distance. Nor did they have sufficient time to conduct an extensive search. It would only be a matter of five minutes at most before the high points came into view. When that happened, any lookout who was there would be able to see them.
‘Hell’s fire!’ growled the Kid, pointing to the edge of the wash. ‘A grizzly come along this way late on yesterday afternoon.’
While Dusty could not detect the tracks which had led the Kid to draw that conclusion, he felt certain that the other had made no mistake. Which only added to their difficulties. A thick coating of trees and bushes at the bottom of the wash would offer the trio all the shelter and concealment they required, if they could get down. Unfortunately, it would present the same qualities to any predatory, dangerous animal seeking for a place to den up.
There were, Dusty knew, few more dangerous creatures in the Lone Star State than a Texas flat-headed grizzly bear. More than that, Ursus Texensis Texends, like the other subdivisions of its species, was known to favor such locations as a resting place after a night’s roaming in search of food.
Going down into the wash, if the bear should be in occupation, would almost certainly provoke an attack. Neither the Winchester Model ’66 or ’73, with respectively weak and inadequate twenty-eight and forty grain powder loads, rated as an ideal tool to stop a charging grizzly at close quarters.
‘Well,’ said Waco, having reached similar conclusions to Dusty and being aware of the need to take cover quickly. ‘Ain’t but the one way to find out if he’s down there.’ He paused briefly and raised his eyes to the sky. ‘Lord, happen there’s a bear down there and you can’t help a miserable sinner like me, don’t you go helping him.’
Before the other two could object, the youngster had guided his horse to the edge. For a moment, the tobiano hesitated, but Waco’s capable handling had won its trust and confidence. So, in response to his signals, it went over. Thrusting out its front legs and tucking the hind limbs under its body, the gelding started to slide down the incline.
With the threat of an attack being made by a grizzly bear when he reached the bottom, Waco had not booted his rifle. Gripping it at the wrist of the butt in his right hand, he did his best to help the horse make the descent. Shoving his feet forward until they were level with the tobiano’s shoulders, he tilted his torso to the rear so that the small of his back rested on the bedroll lashed to his cantle. He held out the rifle and raised his reins-filled left hand as an aid to maintaining his and the gelding’s balance.
On completing the descent, amidst a swirl of dust and a miniature avalanche of dislodged rocks, Waco kicked up with his right leg. Allowing the reins to fall, he sprang clear of the gelding. Landing with his left hand closing upon the Winchester’s fore-grip, he started to throw the butt to his shoulder. There was a sudden rustling amongst the bushes, then a covey of prairie chickens burst out and winged hurriedly along the wash. Making an effort of will, the youngster refrained from shooting at them. He grinned sheepishly and hoped that his amigos had not noticed his involuntary action in aiming at the birds’ position. Lowering the rifle, he turned and waved a cheery hand at them.
Knowing that the birds would not have been in the wash if a bear, or other dangerous animal was present, Dusty and the Kid made their descent. Each of them hoped that Waco had not seen him whip up his Winchester as the birds made their noisy appearance. Deciding that attack was the best form of defense, the small Texan gave the youngster no opportunity to comment if he had observed their hasty, unnecessary actions.
‘Blasted young fool!’ Dusty growled as he reined in his grulla and glared at the unabashed blond. ‘You could’ve got into a bad fix coming down thataways.’
‘Which’s why I did it,’ Waco replied. ‘You pair’re getting too old ’n’ stiff in the joints for fancy foot-stepping should you’ve got jumped.’
‘Boy!’ Dusty ejaculated. ‘There’s the blister-end of a shovel just waiting to be ridden when we get back to the OD Connected.’
‘Matt Caxton’s not likely to be going there,’ Waco pointed out. ‘Anyways, we’re down here safe ’n’ all our buttons fastened.’
That was the essential and vital point. They were now safely hidden from any lookouts who might have been posted. After some more good-natured abuse, which Waco regarded as being high praise and complete approval of his behavior, the trio set about what had become their usual routine. Saddles and bridles were removed, hobbles fixed and the horses allowed to drink at the small stream that trickled along the centre of the wash. Leaving the animals to graze, Dusty, the Kid and Waco studied their surroundings.
Finding a place up which they could climb when night fell, they settled down to rest. Once again the man on guard searched for a concentration of smoke columns to guide them to the town, without doing so. That night, they passed unchallenged between the nearest pair of high points they had selected as lookout places. Dawn found them secure in the cover offered by an extensive clump of post oaks, on a slope that allowed them a good view of the land ahead, to the east or the west.
Hoping that they would locate the town that day, Waco volunteered to take the first spell on watch. He had only just reached his position when he gave a low whistle that caused the other two to join him.
‘Smoke,’ the youngster said laconically. ‘Up on top of that knob there.’
‘Just the one fire and made for signaling,’ decided the Kid, studying the density of the column which rose from the most distant of the points he had picked back beyond the Tierra Blanca Creek. ‘Only I can’t see anybody for him to be signaling?
‘Keep watching, boy,’ Dusty ordered. ‘I don’t reckon it’s us he’s seen and’s sending up the smoke for. So I want to know who it is.’
Although Waco continued his vigil for two hours, constantly sweeping from east to west and back with the field glasses, he saw no reason for the smoke signal. Then, just as the Kid came to relieve him, he halted the movement of the glasses and stared hard at the knob.
‘There’s a feller coming down, L—Comanch’!’ the blond announced.
‘Try looking off to the east,’ suggested the Kid and returned to wake Dusty.
‘We’ve hit pay-dirt!’ Waco enthused as his companions came up. ‘There’s four fellers coming to meet that hombre from the knob.’
Taking the glasses from the youngster, Dusty watched the meeting which took place. The lookout—assuming that was his purpose for being in the area—was a tall, lean, plainly-dressed Mexican and the others, four unshaven North Americans. Although they were a long way from the trio’s hiding place, Dusty could make out a few details. Whatever the Mexican was saying apparently did not meet with the quartet’s approval. After some talk and gesticulation, they yielded to his demands.
‘Well what do you know about that?’ Dusty breathed. ‘The Mexican’s making them hand over their gunbelts.’
‘And rifles,’ the Kid went on. ‘Them folk who run Hell don’t take chances. Their man pulls the owlhoots’ teeth afore he takes them in.’
Haying disarmed the four men, the Mexican led them off in a westerly direction. They went by the post oaks at a distance of around a mile and were clearly unaware of being observed by the three young Texans.
‘That settles one thing,’ Dusty stated. ‘We’re going to have to find the town instead of meeting one of their scouts.
I’ll be damned if I’ll go there with my guns across another man’s saddle.’
Going by their expressions, the Kid and Waco were in complete agreement with Dusty. The day before, they had discussed changing their arrangements if they did not find the town in the next twenty-four hours. Having witnessed the scene which had just taken place, they no longer intended to let themselves be seen by a scout and guided to Hell, if doing it meant being deprived of their weapons.
‘We should be able to get a notion of where the town lies by watching ’em,’ Waco suggested. ‘It must be a fair ways off, though, if we still can’t see their smoke.’
‘They’d likely not want to meet the owlhoots too close to town,’ the Kid pointed out. ‘Give me the glasses, Dusty. I’ll—’
‘Try watching that you get the names right’d be a good thing,’ Waco interrupted, delighted that the Kid had for once fallen into error.
‘Go grab some sleep, you blasted paleface!’ snorted the Kid.
‘It’d be best, Brother Matt,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Watch ’em as far as you can, Comanch’. Only mind that there’s likely to be another of the scouts on the knob.’
‘I’ll mind it,’ promised the Kid.
Keeping the possibility of a second lookout in mind, the Kid remained in the trees as he watched the departing men. He picked out landmarks which would allow him to follow their route even in the dark. After they had disappeared, he concentrated on a fruitless search for the town’s smoke.
In the middle of the afternoon, the scout returned. He was riding a different horse, which suggested that he had delivered the four men to Hell and obtained a fresh mount. It also implied that the town could not be too far away. Yet the Texans still could not detect any hint of it.
‘I’m damned if I know what to make of it,’ Dusty declared as they left the post oaks in the darkness. ‘We’ll go after those fellers as far as we can. Then we’ll stop until it’s light enough to let you follow their trail, Comanch’. It’ll mean moving by daylight, but that’s a chance we’ll have to take.’
‘We’ve not seen any sign of the Kweharehnuh for the last two days,’ the Kid replied. ‘Could be we’re by them and the town’s scouts. We ought to make it.’
Shortly after midnight, the Kid brought his roan to a halt and his signal caused the other two to do the same. Peering through the darkness, Dusty and Waco could see him sitting with his head cocked to one side as if he was straining his ears to catch some very faint sound.
‘What’s up, Comanch’?’ Waco inquired, when the Kid allowed them to come to his side.
‘I’m damned if this chore’s not sending me into a tizz,’ the Kid answered. ‘I could’ve sworn I just heard a piano?
‘Where?’ Dusty demanded.
‘Down wind, some place. A long ways off.’
‘Lordy lord!’ Dusty groaned, slapping his thigh in exasperation. What’ve we been using for brains these last couple of days?’
‘Huh?’ grunted the Kid.
‘We’ve not been making a fire during the day so’s there’d be no smoke rising to give us away,’ Dusty elaborated. ‘And the folks at Hell do the same. Keep moving down into the wind, Comanch’, and I’ll bet you’ll hear that piano again. Then we go to wherever it’s being played and we’ll be in Hell.’
Chapter Six – I’ll Start By Taking Your Guns
By order of the Civic Council, the lighting of fires in the vicinity of the city limits is strictly prohibited during the hours of daylight.
ANY PERSON FAILING TO COMPLY WITH THIS WILL BE SHOT
Signed: Simeon B. Rampart, Mayor.
‘Right friendly way to greet folks,’ commented the Ysabel Kid dryly, indicating the sign. It was one of many similar warnings they had seen since their arrival at Hell.
With the Kid lounging afork the roan to his left and Waco astride the tobiano on his right, Dusty Fog rode at a leisurely pace along the town’s main—in fact only—street towards the large, plank-built livery barn. No smoke rose from any chimney, which was not surprising if the penalty for disobeying the notices was enforced.
‘Makes a feller wonder if it was worthwhile coming,’ Waco went on and favored the dark cowhand with a scowl. ‘You and your blasted piano.’
‘Them signs show you was right about why we didn’t see the smoke during the day, Ed,’ the Kid remarked, ignoring the blond. ‘How do we play it now we’ve got here?’
‘Any way the cards fall,’ Dusty decided. ‘And we’ll start by letting them come to us.’
Finding the town had not been too difficult, although not quite so easy as Dusty had suggested the previous night. Riding into the wind, the Kid and, soon after, his companions had heard the faint jangling of a piano. There had been others sounds to tell them that people—and not Indians—were ahead. At first the trio had been puzzled by the absence of glowing lights to go with the sounds of revelry. Passing through an area of dense woodland, they had learned the reason. Surrounded by the trees and erected in the bottom of an enormous basin-like crater, Hell was effectively concealed until one was almost on top of it.
Although there had been considerable activity—in fact the place had the atmosphere of a Kansas railroad town at the height of the trail drive season—Dusty had decided that they would put off their arrival until morning. He had wanted to form a better idea of what they were riding into. It had also struck the trio as making good sense to conduct their entrance when they had rested and were fully alert.
Seen from the edge of the trees and by daylight, Hell had looked much the same as any other small cow-country town. Maybe a mite more prosperous than most, but giving no hint of its true nature and purpose. There did not appear to be a church or school. On the slope down which the Texans had made their entrance was a graveyard that seemed too large for the size of the town. To the rear of the livery barn, situated at the extreme western end of the street, four large, adobe-walled corrals held a number of horses.
While approaching, the trio had noticed that, apart from those along the street, all the town’s buildings had been constructed of adobe many years before and more recently repaired. Wooden planks appeared to be de rigueur for the premises flanking the main thoroughfare. It offered much the usual selection of businesses and trades to be found in any town of comparable size. Two of the learned professions were represented by shingles advertising respectively a doctor and a lawyer. Noticeable omissions were the normally ubiquitous stagecoach depot, law enforcement offices, jailhouse and bank.
The largest building in town—as might have been expected—with a size even exceeding that of the livery barn, was the two-storey high Honest Man Saloon. On its upper front verandah rail, it had a bullet-pocked nameboard that was devoid of the usual descriptive illustration favored by similar establishments.
Flanking the saloon, if somewhat overshadowed by it, were the premises of Doctor Ludwig Connolly and Simeon Lampart, attorney-at-law. The latter was a good-sized, one-floor building of sturdy construction, with thick iron bars at the left from window that bore the inscription, ‘MAYOR’S OFFICE’. Facing the Honest Man, almost matching it in length if not height, the undertaker’s establishment must have had a sobering effect upon revelers with a price on their heads, or a hangman’s rope awaiting them if they should be captured. Only a town with a high mortality rate could support such a large concern.
On reaching the double doors of the bam without being challenged, or even addressed, by such of the citizens as they had seen, the trio dismounted. Leading their horses inside, Dusty read the words, ‘Ivan Basmanov, Prop.’ painted above the front doors. Entering they found only four stalls empty and none of them adjacent to the others. Overhead, a hayloft stretched halfway across the stable portion of the building, being reached by a ladder in the center of the frontal supports. The cooing of pigeons in the loft came to their ears as they continued to examine their surroundings. Two doors in each side wall gave access to an office, tack-, fodder- and storerooms. Opposite the front entrance, an equally larg
e pair of doors were open to show two of the adobe corrals’ gates.
Hinges creaked and a big, bulky man came from what appeared to be the barn’s business office. Sullen-featured, with a heavy, drooping mustache, he wore a good quality gray shirt, Levi’s pants and low-heeled Wellington-leg boots. Slanting down to his right thigh hung a gunbelt carrying an ivory-handled Remington 1861 Army revolver. It was the rig of a fast man with a gun. A flicker of surprise showed on his face as he looked from the newcomers to the otherwise deserted bam.
‘Who brought you in?’ demanded the man in a hard, guttural voice.
‘Our hosses,’ Dusty replied. ‘So now we’d like to bed them down comfortable and let them rest.’
‘But—But—!’ the man spluttered.
‘Are you that Ivan Basmanov prop, hombre, who’s got his name on the wall outside?’ Dusty asked.
‘I am.’
‘Then you’re the feller’s can say whether we can leave them or not.’
‘I am also the head of the Civic Regulators,’ Basmanov growled. ‘Which of our guides brought you into town?’
Letting the reins slip from his fingers, Dusty moved away from the grulla and faced Basmanov. Releasing their horses, the Kid and Waco fanned out on either side of the small Texan.
‘Can’t rightly say any of them did, mister,’ Dusty answered. ‘We come in together and without help.’
‘You reached here without being stopped by the Kweharehnuh, or seen by our lookouts?’ The barn’s proprietor almost yelped out the words.
‘Is it supposed to be difficult?’ Dusty countered and let a harder note creep into his voice. ‘Can we put up our horses or not?’
For a moment, Basmanov made no reply. He seemed to be weighing up his chances of taking a firm line against the trio. If so, he must have concluded that the odds were not in his favor. The three young men had positioned themselves in a manner that made it impossible for even the fastest hand with a gun to deal with them simultaneously.