by J. T. Edson
‘All set, Miss Keller,’ growled one of the men.
‘Good,’ she replied, allowing him to help her mount to the side-saddle she used. ‘Let’s get that creature home before it stiffens and can’t be skinned.’
They rode back through the bosque and out at the far side. Norma threw her eyes over the range, searching for some sign of her rescuer, but seeing none. So she rode with the two men, comparing them with him and not to their advantage. There was so much she wanted to know about this new land, so much they might have taught her, but they seemed sullen and uncommunicative.
For a mile or so they rode in silence, then she saw a rider top a rim and head towards them, a man who looked familiar.
‘That’s Mr. Dune, isn’t it?’ she asked.
‘Yeah,’ grunted the taller man. ‘That Dune all right.’
Norma frowned for she did not approve of employees referring in such a manner to their foreman. However she made no comment for Norma had already seen a different standard of behaviour seemed common in this new land she and her father picked for their home.
Coming up at a gallop Dune brought his horse to a sliding halt, eager to impress Norma with his riding skill. He was something of a range-country dandy and fashion-plate, dressed to the height of cowhand fashion. Although only a medium-sized man Buck Dune fancied himself as quite a lady-killer, a gallant with a string of conquests which covered the length and breadth of the west.
Since the girl’s arrival at the ranch Dune had tried to bear down on her with the full force of his charm and personality. Her father had money, more money than Dune could ever recollect seeing at one time and Dune was more than willing to find acceptance into the Keller family circle. Only the charm which attracted girls in the better class saloons, dancehalls and cat-houses; plus a few women not from that class but who should have shown better sense; failed where Norma Keller was concerned. Towards him the girl displayed a cool attitude. She always answered his greetings, asked questions and listened with interest to his answers but always with calm detachment, oblivious to his swarthy good looks, his neatly trimmed moustache, or the faint scent of bay rum which always clung to him. She treated him as a valued employee and made it plain that was how things would remain.
This morning the girl’s flat refusal to allow him to act as her guide when she went riding left him feeling as awkward and shambling as a barefooted yokel boy. It had been an unusual feeling and he still did not know if he liked it or not
‘Howdy, Miss Keller,’ he greeted, removing his hat in a graceful gesture guaranteed to prove his genteel upbringing. Then his eyes went to the cougar’s body. Where did you get that cat?’
‘I had an adventure,’ she replied, smiling and forgetting that he warned her of the presence of cougars on the range. She did not notice his surprise at seeing the one her rescuer had killed. ‘A young man shot it when it tried to attack me.’
Dune threw a glance at the two gunmen. He had clean forgotten warning the girl about the danger of mountain lions. It had been no more than an excuse to get Norma to accept his offer of guidance and company. Now it seemed she had really met up with a cougar and he lost the chance of acting as a gallant heroic rescuer.
He forgot that matter in something more urgent. His eyes stayed on the two gunmen but he remembered just in time not to say too much before the girl. If the young man was no more than a drifting cowhand it would not be too bad, for he would be unlikely to return.
‘You’d best get it right back to the spread and skin it out,’ he said, hoping the men would read his words right.
It seemed they did, for the one toting the cougar started his horse forward, Norma at his side. The other man held his mount back, reading the message in Dune’s eyes.
‘Who was he?’ growled Dune after the girl had ridden away.
‘Some kid on a damned great white hoss,’ replied the other man. ‘It sure could move. We saw it from half a mile back and hadn’t gone two hundred yards afore we knew there wasn’t a chance in hell of us catching up to him.’
An explosive snorted curse left Dune’s lips. He let the veneer of charm fall from him and showed what he really was, a killer without moral or scruple. Tring’s bunch had returned to the spread, most of them toting shotgun lead and cursing about it, although all might have accounted themselves lucky the gun carried no worse than birdshot which did no more than pierce their hides.
They gave livid and profane descriptions of the trio of men who, according to them, jumped them, held them under guns and pinned down helpless. Dune found the descriptions tallied with three men he had heard much of, although had never met up with. He remembered the Ysabel Kid, the descriptions he’d heard of that tall, dangerous young man. The descriptions often contained references to the Kid’s horse, a seventeen-hand white stallion which could run like the wind.
‘A tall, young looking, dark faced kid, dressed all in black?’ he asked savagely. ‘Got him a Dragoon Colt and a bowie knife.’
‘That’s him.’
‘And that’s the Ysabel Kid!’ snarled Dune, spitting the words out like they burned his mouth. ‘Which way’d he go?’
‘Said he was headed for Bent’s Ford.’
‘Reckon he was?’
‘That’s what he said. Was headed north all right when we put him up.’
The two men sat their horses for a moment. Dune dropped a hand to the butt of the Tranter revolver holstered at his side. If the Ysabel Kid was headed for Bent’s Ford he was going for some good purpose. Dusty Fog wouldn’t send off his left bower2 at such a time without good cause. And the Kid had seen Norma Keller. He had seen far too much to be left alive.
‘I’ll take your hoss, ride a relay after him!’ growled Dune.
‘And leave me afoot?’ answered the other.
‘Shout to your pard. Tell him I’ve got to go into Barlock in a hurry, that’s for Miss Keller to hear. They can send another hoss out from the spread.’
‘What’ll I tell Mallick, happen he comes out and wants to see you?’ asked the gunman, swinging from his saddle.
‘Tell him I’ve gone to Bent’s Ford. That black dressed breed’s seen a damned sight too much. He’s got to be killed!’
oooOooo
1. Told of in COMANCHE
2. Left bower. Originally a term used in playing Euchre and meaning the second highest trump.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JACKIEBOY DISRAELI
IN all fairness to Mark Counter it must be said he did not intend to get into any trouble at all.
After visiting the Wells Fargo office and sending a telegraph message which would eventually be delivered to the OD Connected house in the Rio Hondo country, Mark headed towards where he could see Freda’s buckboard halted before the general store. In so doing he had to pass the hospitable doors of the Jackieboy Saloon. He saw that Dusty had collected both their horses and taken them down to the store and so would not have wasted time entering the saloon if it had not been for what he saw happening inside.
Mark glanced through the batwing doors, then came to a halt. He was a cowhand, a good one, he was also a cowhand who had seen the treatment handed out to less fortunate members of his trade when they found themselves in a saloon and at odds with the owners.
None of the crowd looked at Mark as he entered. Their full attention centred on the group at the bar. It was this same group at the bar which brought Mark into the room in the first place.
There were three men in the centre of the bar, only they hadn’t come to it for pleasure, or if the cowhand of the group had he sure didn’t look like he was getting any of it.
‘The boss told you to clear out of this section. There ain’t no work here!’
The speaker stood tall, as tall as Mark Counter and maybe thirty or forty pounds heavier. From the slurred manner of his speech and the battered aspect of his face he had done more than his fair share of fist-fighting in the raw, brutal bare-knuckle manner. He had powerful arms and big hands, and was putting both to
good use as he held the cowhand pressed back against the bar.
Held with the huge man’s powerful hands gripping, gouging into his shoulders, the cowhand could do little. He stood six foot, had good shoulders and lean waist but he looked like a midget in the hands of the burly brutal bruiser who held him. His face twisted in agony. It was cheerful most times, maybe not too handsome, but friendly and pleasant. His clothes looked northern range fashion, they were not over-expensive, but his hat and boots both cost good money and his gunbelt, while not being a fast-man’s rig, did not look like a decoration.
Standing to one side of the others a small, tubby man watched everything with drooling lips and a sadistic gaze. He was a sallow skinned man, his nose slightly large and bent. He wore a light dove-grey cutaway jacket of gambler’s style, snow white trousers down which ran a black stripe, primrose yellow spats and a pair of shoes which shone enough to reflect the view around him. His shirt bore considerable frills and lace to it and his bow-tie had an almost feminine look about it. He stood relaxed at the bar, his posture nearer that of a dancehall girl than of a gambing man. Taking a lace handkerchief from his cuff he mopped his brow.
‘He understands now, Knuckles,’ he lisped in a falsetto voice which might have brought down derision on him, but did not. ‘Let him free.’
On the order Knuckles released his hold. The young cowhand showed he had sand to burn. His right fist lashed around, smashing into the side of the huge man’s bristle-covered jaw. It was a good blow, swung with weight behind it, but Knuckles did not even give a sign of knowing it landed. He grunted and his big left hand came back, slashing into the cowhand’s cheek and sprawling him to the floor.
‘He’s not learned his lesson, Knuckles!’ purred the tubby man. ‘Stomp him!’
Like an elephant moving Knuckks stepped towards the dazed cowhand, lifting a huge foot ready to obey. Through the pain mists the cowhand saw Knuckles towering over him, tried to force himself into some kind of action.
Two hands descended on Knuckles’s shoulders. He felt himself heaved back and propelled violently away from the bar. A mutter of surprise ran through the saloon as the huge bouncer went reeling and staggering backwards. Not one of the watching crowd had expected to see a man brave, or foolish, enough to tangle with the huge bouncer of the Jackieboy Saloon.
Nor had Knuckles. Caught with one foot off the ground he could do nothing to prevent himself reeling backwards. He smashed down to a table which shattered under his weight and deposited him in a heap on the ground.
‘You shouldn’t have done that, cowboy!’ said the tubby man. ‘Now you’ve made Knuckles angry.’
Which could have been classed as the understatement of the year. Knuckles had gone past mere anger. He snarled with rage, foam forming on his lips as he rolled over on to hands and knees. One hand clamped on a table leg and he came to his feet holding it like a club in his fist. He attacked with a rush as dangerous as the charge of a long-horn bull.
Not a person in the room spoke as they watched. The big blond Texan looked strong, but no man had ever stood up to Knuckles in one of his murderous rages.
With the table leg raised Knuckles came in fast. Mark watched him, seeing the strength, noticing the slowness. Knuckles had been a prize-fighter but like most of his kind fought with brute strength alone, by standing toe-to-toe and trading blows until one of them could take no more. His instinct for fighting had become settled into his routine and he could not believe that any other man fought in a different manner. So he expected, if indeed he troubled to think about it at all, that Mark would stand there to be hit with the table leg. Believing this he launched a blow that should have flattened Mark’s head level with his shoulders. Only it did not land.
At the last instant, when most folks watching thought he had left it too late. Mark sidestepped the rush. The table leg missed him and shattered to pieces on the floor. Carried forward by his own impetus Knuckles lost his balance once more. He staggered forward a step and Mark, with a grace and agility a lighter, smaller man might have envied, pivoted around and threw a punch. The blow, driven with strength, skill and precision, travelled fast and landed hard. It crashed into and mangled still more Knuckles’s fight-damaged right ear.
Knuckles shot forward, head down and with no control over his body. The man’s close-cropped skull smashed into the bar front and shattered through it. He disappeared behind the bar, knocking the bartender from his feet and preventing him from grabbing up the ten gauge shotgun which lay under the counter for use at such times. With a yell the bartender went down, Knuckles’s heavy body on top of him.
A concerted gasp rose from the watching crowd. Everyone expected Knuckles to come roaring through the hole in the bar and stomp the big Texan clear into the floorboards. In this they were to be disappointed for it would be another four hours before Knuckles could move under his own power again.
‘I don’t like you, you nasty man!’ hissed the tubby man from behind Mark. ‘I don’t like you at all!’
The words brought Mark around in a fast turn. He found his aid in handling the matter unnecessary. Even as the tubby man’s hand started to lift from his pocket with something metallic glinting in it, the young cowhand took a hand. He rose to one knee, his right fist caught the man in the fat belly and folded him like a closed jack-knife. Then the cowhand came to his feet, the other fist lashed up to catch the tubby man’s jaw, jerking him erect and over on to his back. A nickel plated Remington Double Derringer came from the fat man’s pocket, left his hand to fly across the room as he fell. The gun looked dainty and fancy enough to have come from the garter of a high-class saloon girl, but that made it no less deadly.
‘Freeze!’ Mark barked, hearing the rumble of talk from the crowd and facing them with his matched Army Colts in his hands, lined in their general direction.
They all froze for not one member of the crowd failed to, notice how fast the guns came out, nor how competently Mark handled them. Apart from the whining and moaning of the tubby Jew on the floor not a sound came for a long moment.
Mark’s nostrils quivered. He could smell a rich perfume which seemed to be vaguely familiar, yet he could not remember for the moment where he last smelled it. This time he could locate the source for the fat shape sprawled on the floor reeked of it. The perfume should mean something, Mark knew. The fat man smelled of the perfume, it rose and hung around him like a cloud.
‘Look here, mister,’ said one of the customers in a conciliatory tone. ‘We don’t know what set Jackieboy there and Knuckles on to the cowhand. Reckon anything between you and him’s your affair and he ain’t doing nothing much about it. But I got a chance of filling a straight here.’
‘Go ahead then,’ replied Mark, holstering his guns. ‘Only don’t blame me if you miss filling it.’
The young cowhand had made his feet now. He looked around the room, then said, ‘We’d best get out of here. Likely somebody’s gone for the law.’
‘Sure,’ Mark agreed. ‘What started all this fuss?’
‘There you got me. I came in, bought me a drink. Then I asked if there was a chance of taking a riding chore in these parts and the next thing I knew they was both of them on me. The name’s Morg Summers.’
From his talk Morg hailed from the north country. He looked like a competent cowhand, one who could be relied on to stay loyal to any brand into whose wagon he threw his bedroll.
‘I’m Mark Counter,’ Mark answered as they walked side by side across the room. ‘Happen you got no other plans I might be able to put a riding chore your way real soon.’
They reached the doors and passed forth. From the moment their feet hit the sidewalk both knew they were in trouble. It showed in the shape of the eight men who lounged around in a half circle before the doors. They wore deputy marshal’s badges and looked as mean a pack of cut-throats as a man could want to see. Only this looked like the town marshal had extra staff, for Lasalle claimed but eight men worked for Elben and two remained safely hog-tied in
the Land Agent’s office.
In the centre of the group, with pomaded blond hair, a moustache and goatee beard stood the town marshal himself, looking like a fugitive from a Bill-show. He had a high crowned white Stetson, a fringed buckskin jacket, cavalry style trousers with shining Jefferson boots. A gunbelt supporting a matched brace of ivory handled Remington Beals Army revolvers butt forwards in the holsters. All in all he looked far too well dressed to be honest and much too prosperous for a lawman in a small Texas town.
‘What went on inside there?’ he asked.
‘Enough,’ Mark replied. ‘You want to tell that swish to keep his tame bear chained afore somebody throws lead into it.’
‘Don’t get flip with me!’ Elben snarled. ‘I’m taking you both to jail on charges of assault and disturbing the peace.’
‘I got assaulted and my peace disturbed too,’ Morg answered. ‘You going to jail the folks who done it?’
‘Shut your mouth!’ Elben replied.
‘Happen I ever get to be a taxpayer you sure won’t get my vote,’ Morg threatened. ‘How about it, Mark?’
Mark knew the men wouldn’t chance using guns against him unless they were pushed into it. He also knew he could not risk being taken to jail. Any time now the men down in Mallick’s office might wriggle their way free, or might be found. Before that happened Freda must be taken safely out of town. Mallick didn’t look the kind of man who would let her being a woman stop him from roughing her up or worse. Two against eight were poor odds, but Dusty was on hand and could likely get to them in time to help.